PARIS 
VISTAS 

HELEN  DAVENPORT 
GIBBONS 


t 


: 


PARIS  VISTAS 


Or  (JAUF.  1/UftftARY.  LOU 


The  Invalides  from  Pont  Alexandra  III 


PARIS   VISTAS 


BY 

HELEN  DAVENPORT  GIBBONS 

Author  of  "  A  Little  Gray  Home  in  France," 
"Red  Rugs  of  Tarsus,"  etc. 


WITH  SIXTEEN  ILLUSTRATIONS 
BY 

LESTER  GEORGE  HORNBY 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1919 


Copyright,  1919,  by 
THE  CENTUBY  Co. 


Published,  December,  1919 


TO 

A  CRITIC 

WHO  LIVED  MOST 

OF  THESE  DAYS 

WITH    ME 


2130063 


FOREWORD 

Webster  defines  a  vista  as  "a  view,  especially  a  dis- 
tant view,  through  or  between  intervening  objects." 
If  I  were  literal-minded,  I  suppose  I  should  either 
abandon  my  title  or  make  this  book  a  series  of  descrip- 
tions of  Sacre  Cceur,  crowning  Montmartre,  as  you  see 
the  church  from  dark  gray  to  ghostly  white,  according 
to  the  day,  at  the  end  of  apartment-house-lined  streets 
from  the  allee  of  the  Observatoire,  from  the  Avenue 
Montaigne,  from  the  rue  de  Solferino,  and  from  the 
Rue  Taitbout.  I  ought  to  be  writing  about  the  vistas, 
than  which  no  other  city  possesses  a  more  beautiful 
and  varied  array,  that  feature  the  Arc  de  Triomphe, 
the  Trocadero,  the  Tour  Eiffel,  the  Grande  Roue,  the 
Invalides,  the  Palais  Bourbon,  the  Madeleine,  the 
Opera,  Saint-Augustin,  Val  de  Grace  and  the  Pantheon. 

But  may  not  one's  vistas  be  memories,  with  the 
years  acting  as  "intervening  objects'"?  Has  not 
distance  as  much  to  do  with  time  as  with  space*? 
Vistas  in  words  can  no  more  convey  the  impression 
of  things  seen  than  Lester  Hornby's  sketches.  If  you 
want  a  substitute  for  Baedeker,  please  do  not  read 
this  book!  If  you  want  a  substitute  for  photographs, 
you  will  be  disappointed  in  Lester's  sketches. 

The  monuments  of  Paris,  ticketed  by  name  and 
historical  events  to  tourists  whose  eyes  have  had 
hardly  more  time  than  the  camera,  known  by  photo- 

vii 


FOREWORD 

graphs  to  prospective  tourists  who  dream  of  things 
as  yet  unseen,  are  interwoven  into  the  canvas  of  my 
life.  The  Gare  Saint-Lazaire,  for  instance,  is  the 
place  where  I  was  lost  once  as  a  kid,  where  I  have 
had  to  say  goodbye  to  my  husband  starting  on  a 
long  and  perilous  journey,  and  over  which  I  have 
seen  a  Zeppelin  floating.  Since  Louis  Philippe  was 
long  before  my  time,  the  obelisk  always  has  been 
in  the  Place  de  la  Concorde.  And  when  you  pass  it, 
your  eyes,  meeting  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  at  the  end 
of  the  Champs-Elysees,  the  Carrousel  at  the  end  of 
the  Tuileries,  the  Madeleine  at  the  end  of  the  Rue 
Royale  and  the  Palais  Bourbon  at  the  end  of  the 
bridge,  record  vistas  as  natural,  as  familiar  as  your 
mother's  face  in  the  doorway  of  the  childhood  home. 
Where  else  could  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  be4?  Of  course 
it  looks  like  that! 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  apologize  for  the  autobiog- 
raphy that  comes  to  the  front  in  my  Paris  vistas. 
Perhaps  my  own  insignificance  and  unimportance  and 
the  lack  of  interest  on  the  part  of  the  public  in  what  I 
do  and  think — impressed  upon  me  by  more  than  one 
critic  of  earlier  volumes — should  deter  me  from  tell- 
ing how  I  lived  and  brought  up  my  family  in  Paris. 
But  it  is  the  only  way  I  can  tell  how  I  feel  about 
Paris.  Whether  the  end  justifies  the  means  the 
reader  must  decide  for  himself. 

H.  D.  G. 

Paris i  August,  1919. 

viii 


(1887-1888) 

CHAPTER  VAQZ 

I    CHILDHOOD  VISTAS 3 

(1899) 

II    Ax  SIXTEEN 15 

(1908) 

III  A  HONEYMOON  PROMISE 31 

(1909-1910) 

IV  THE  PROMISE  FULFILLED 41 

V     THE  PENSION  IN  THE  RUE  MADAME     .      .  51 

VI     LARES  AND  PENATES  IN  THE  RUE  SERVAN- 

DONI 63 

VII    GOLD  IN  THE  CHIMNEY 76 

VIII       AT  THE  BlBLIOTHEQUE  NATIONALS    ...  86 

IX     EMILIE  IN  MONOLOGUE 97 

X    HUNTING  APACHES 104 

XI     DRIFTWOOD 112 

XII     SOME  OF  OUR  GUESTS 119 

XIII  WALKS  AT  NIGHTFALL 132 

XIV  AFTER-DINNER  COFFEE 142 

XV     REPOS  HEBDOMADAIRE 148 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

XVI 


"MANY  WATERS  CANNOT  QUENCH  LOVE"  .    154 

XVII     REAL  PARIS  SHOWS 167 

XVIII     THE  SPELL  OF  JUNE  .  ,    181 


(1913) 

XIX     CHILDHOOD  VISTAS  FOR  A  NEW  GENERATION  193 
XX     THE  PROBLEM  OF  HOUSING  .  ,  201 


XXI 


(19H) 
"NACH  PARIS!" 


(1914-1916) 
XXII     AT  HOME  IN  THE  WHIRLWIND 

XXIII  SAUVONS  LES  BEBES   . 

XXIV  UNCOMFORTABLE  NEUTRALITY 


211 


223 
231 

243 


XXV  How  WE  KEPT  WARM 253 

XXVI  APRIL  SIXTH 262 

XXVII  THE  VANGUARD  OF  THE  A.  E.  F.     .      .     .  269 

(1918) 

XXVIII  THE  DARKEST  DAYS 277 

XXIX  THE  GOTHAS  AND  BIG  BERTHA  ....  294 

XXX  THE  BIRD  CHARMER  OF  THE  TUILERIES     .  307 

XXXI  THE  QUATORZE  OF  TESTING 3!3 

XXXII  THE  LIBERATION  OF  LILLE 321 

XXXIII  ARMISTICE  NIGHT 326 


CONTENTS 


CHAI'TEB 

XXXIV 
XXXV 


XXXVI 

XXXVII 

XXXVIII 


ROYAL  VISITORS    .... 
THE  FIRST  PEACE  CHRISTMAS 


341 
348 


(1919) 

PLOTTING  PEACE 361 

LA  VIE  CHERE 373 

THE  REVENGE  OF  VERSAILLES     ....  378 


XXXIX    THE  QUATORZE  OF  VICTORY  . 


385 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  Invalides  from  Pont  Alexandra  III     .      .       Frontispiece 

FACING! 
PAGE 

The  Madeleine  Flower  Market 16 

Looking  up  the  Avenue  de  1'Opera 32 

The  Rue  de  Vaugirard  by  the  Luxembourg     ....     64 
Chateau  de  la  Reine  Blanche :  Rue  des  Gobelins    ...     88 

Where  stood  the  walls  of  old  Lutetia 120 

The  Pantheon  from  the  Rue  Soufflot 144 

Hotel  de  Ville  from  the  Pont  d'Arcole 168 

Market  day  in  the  Rue  de  Seine 184 

The  first  snow  in  the  Luxembourg 224 

A  passage  through  the  Louvre 256 

In  an  Old  Quarter 272 

Saint-Germain  1'Auxerrois 304 

Old  Paris  is  disappearing 320 

The  Grand  Palais 336 

Spire  of  the  Saint-Chapelle  from  the  Place  Saint-Michel  .  368 


1887-1888 


PARIS  VISTAS 

CHAPTER  I 

CHILDHOOD    VISTAS 

MY  Scotch-Irish  grandfather  was  a  Covenanter. 
He  kept  his  whisky  in  a  high  cupboard  under 
lock  and  key.  If  any  of  his  children  were  around 
when  he  took  his  night-cap,  he  would  admonish  them 
against  the  use  of  alchohol.  When  he  read  in  the 
Bible  about  Babylon,  he  thought  of  Paris.  To 
Grandpa  all  "foreign  places"  were  pretty  bad.  But 
Paris'?  His  children  would  never  go  there.  The 
Scotch-Irish  are  awful  about  wills.  But  life  goes  so 
by  opposites  that  when  my  third  baby,  born  in  Paris 
a  year  before  the  war,  was  christened  in  the  Avenue 
de  PAlma  Church,  Grandpa  Brown's  children  and 
grandchildren  and  some  of  his  great-grandchildren 
were  present.  My  bachelor  uncle  had  been  living  in 
Paris  most  of  the  time  for  thirty  years.  My  mother, 
my  brothers,  and  my  sister  were  there.  We  Browns 
had  become  Babylonians.  We  were  no  longer  Cov- 
enanters. And  we  had  no  high  cupboard  for  the 
whisky. 

After  Grandpa's  death,  the  Philadelphia  house  was 

3 


PARIS  VISTAS 

sublet  for  a  year.  In  the  twilight  we  went  through 
all  the  rooms  to  say  good-by.  Jocko,  our  monkey-doll, 
was  on  the  sitting-room  floor.  Papa  picked  him  up 
and  began  talking  to  him.  Jocko  tried  to  answer,  but 
his  voice  was  shaky,  and  he  had  n't  much  to  say. 
Papa  took  a  piece  of  string  out  of  his  desk  drawer,  and 
tied  it  around  Jocko's  neck.  He  asked  Jocko  whether 
it  was  too  tight.  The  monkey  answered,  "No,  sir." 
Jocko  never  forgot  to  say  "sir."  We  hung  him  on  the 
shutter  of  a  window  in  the  west  room  where  I  learned 
to  watch  the  sunset.  There  we  left  him.  What  a 
parting  if  we  had  known  that  the  tenants'  children 
were  going  to  do  for  Jocko,  and  that  we  should  never 
see  him  again!  It  was  bad  enough  as  it  was.  It  is 
hard  for  me,  even  to-day,  to  believe  that  it  was  Papa 
and  not  Jocko  who  told  us  stones  about  the  fairies  in 
Ireland. 

A  carriage  drove  us  to  a  place  called  Thelafayette- 
hotel.  It  was  very  dark  outside  and  we  seemed  to 
have  been  traveling  all  night.  Papa  carried  me  up- 
stairs to  a  room  that  had  light  green  folding  doors. 
My  little  sister  Emily  was  sound  asleep  and  had  to  be 
put  right  to  bed.  Papa  sat  me  in  a  red  arm-chair. 
Beside  it  were  satchels  and  Papa's  black  valise.  Wide 
awake,  I  looked  around  and  asked,  "Is  this  Paris?"  I 
did  not  see  why  they  had  to  laugh  at  me. 

A  steward  of  my  very  own  on  the  Etruria  told  me 
that  she  was  the  biggest  transatlantic  liner.  People 

4 


CHILDHOOD  VISTAS 

gave  me  chocolates  until  I  was  sick.  So  Mama 
painted  a  picture  of  the  poor  little  fishes  that  could  get 
no  candy  in  mid-ocean.  She  made  me  feel  so  sorry  that 
when  I  got  more  chocolates  I  would  slip  to  the  railing 
and  drop  them  overboard.  Once,  before  I  had  heard 
about  the  fishes,  I  was  lying  in  my  berth.  After  a 
while  I  began  to  feel  better  and  to  wish  that  Papa  and 
Mama  had  not  left  me  alone.  My  feelings  were  hurt 
because  I  had  to  stay  all  by  myself.  I  found  my 
clothes  and  put  on  a  good  many  of  them.  My  stew- 
ard came  and  was  surprised  that  I  was  not  on  deck. 
He  brought  me  a  wide,  thin  glass  of  champagne.  It 
was  better  than  lemonade.  The  steward  told  me  that 
by  staying  in  my  cabin  I  had  missed  the  chance  to  see 
the  ship's  garden.  He  buttoned  my  dress  and  put  on 
my  coat.  He  found  my  bonnet.  All  the  time  he  was 
telling  me  how  the  ship's  garden  was  hitched  to  the 
deck.  He  carried  me  up  those  rubber-topped  steps 
that  smell  so  when  your  stomach  feels  funny.  He  hur- 
ried all  he  could  and  got  terribly  out  of  breath.  But 
we  did  not  reach  the  deck  in  time  to  see  the  garden. 
The  steward  said  that  you  had  to  get  there  just  at  a 
certain  time  to  catch  it.  I  wondered  how  a  ship  could 
have  a  garden.  He  replied  that  he  'd  like  to  know 
where  a  ship's  cook  would  find  vegetables  and  fruit, 
and  how  there  were  so  many  freshly  picked  flowers  on 
the  dining-room  table  every  day,  if  the  ship  had  n't  a 
garden.  To  prove  it  he  brought  me  a  plate  of  cool 

5 


PARIS  VISTAS 

white  grapes — "picked  before  the  garden  went  out  of 
sight  a  few  minutes  ago,"  he  assured  me. 

So  the  week  at  sea  passed,  and  the  next  thing  I  re- 
member is  London.  It  was  not  a  pretty  city.  Too 
much  rain  and  smoke  that  dirtied  your  frock  and  pina- 
fore. These  funny  names  for  my  dress  and  apron,  and 
calling  a  clock  Big  Ben,  and  a  queer  way  of  speaking 
English,  form  my  earliest  memories  of  London.  No, 
I  forgot  sources  of  wonderment.  The  best  orange  mar- 
malade was  bitter,  and  the  tooth-powder  was  in  a 
round  tin  hard  to  open,  that  spilled  and  wasted  a  lot 
when  you  did  succeed  in  prying  the  lid  off. 

And  in  Paris  I  found  that  my  dress  was  a  "robe" 
and  my  apron  a  "tab-lee-ay."  This  was  worse  than 
"pinafore,"  but  not  so  astonishing,  because  one  ex- 
pected French  words  to  be  different. 

Which  is  the  greater  joy  and  satisfaction — always 
to  have  had  a  thing,  or,  when  you  think  of  something 
in  your  life,  to  be  able  to  remember  how  and  when  it 
came  into  your  possession*?  Paris  is  my  home  city  in 
the  sense  that  I  cannot  remember  first  impressions  of 
things  in  Paris.  Of  events,  yes,  and  sometimes  con- 
nected with  things,  but  of  things  themselves,  no.  And 
I  am  glad  of  it.  My  husband  did  not  see  Paris  until 
he  was  twenty,  and  he  learned  to  speak  French  by  hard 
work.  I  have  always  had  a  little  feeling  of  superior- 
ity here,  of  belonging  to  Paris  as  my  children  belong 
to  Paris.  But  Herbert  contests  this  point  of  view. 

6 


CHILDHOOD  VISTAS 

He  claims  that  affection  for  what  one  adopts  by  an 
act  of  the  will  is  as  strong  as,  if  not  stronger  than,  af- 
fection for  what  is  yours  unwittingly.  And  he  ad- 
vances in  refutation  of  what  I  say  that  he  knew  Paris 
before  he  knew  me ! 

11  Cinquante-deux  Rue  Galilee"  I  cannot  remember 
learning  to  speak  French.  That  just  came.  But 
standing  on  a  trunk  in  the  corner  of  a  bedroom  and  re- 
peating Cinquante-deux  Rue  Galilee  after  Marie  is  just 
as  clear  in  my  mind  as  if  it  were  yesterday  instead  of 
thirty  years  ago.  It  is  a  blank  to  me  how  and  when  we 
came  to  Paris  and  how  and  when  we  got  Marie  Guyon 
for  our  nurse.  I  recall  only  learning  the  number  and 
street  of  our  pension,  and  the  impressiveness  of  Marie 
telling  me  how  little  kids  get  lost  in  Paris  and  that  in 
such  a  case  I  must  n't  cry  when  the  blue-coated  agent 
came  along,  but  simply  say,  "Cinquante-deux  Rue  Gal- 
ilee." 

Clear  days  were  rare — days  when  it  did  n't  look  as 
if  it  were  going  to  rain.  Then  I  would  have  my  long 
walk  with  Papa,  who  did  n't  stay  like  Marie  on  the 
Champs-Elysees  or  in  the  Tuileries,  but  who  would 
take  me  (Emily  was  too  little)  where  there  were 
crowds.  We  would  climb  to  the  roof  of  the  omnibus 
at  the  Madeleine  and  ride  to  the  Place  de  la  Republi- 
que.  Then  we  would  walk  back  along  the  Grands 
Boulevards.  Down  that  way  is  a  big  clothing-store 
with  sample  suits  on  wooden  models  out  on  the  side- 

7 


PARIS  VISTAS 

walk.  One  day  Papa  bumped  into  a  dummy  wearing 
a  dress-suit.  Papa  took  off  his  hat,  bowed,  and  said 
"Pardon."  I  thought  Papa  believed  it  was  a  real  man. 
So  I  told  him  that  he  had  made  a  mistake.  But  Papa 
replied  that  one  never  makes  a  mistake  in  being  polite. 
I  used  to  dance  with  glee  when  we  came  to  the  Porte 
Saint-Denis.  For  there,  at  the  place  the  boulevard 
now  cuts  straight  through  a  hill  leaving  the  houses  high 
above  the  pavement,  the  pastry  and  brioche  and  waffle 
stands  were  sure  of  my  patronage.  Papa  may  not  have 
had  regard  for  my  digestion,  but  he  always  considered 
my  feelings.  I  used  to  pity  other  little  children  who 
were  dragged  remorselessly  past  the  potent  appeal  to 
eye  and  nose.  The  pastry  places  are  still  there  on  that 
corner.  And  a  new  generation  of  kiddies  passes,  tug- 
ging, remonstrating,  sometimes  crying.  As  for  me,  I 
beg  the  question.  I  walk  my  children  on  the  other 
side  of  the  street. 

One  afternoon  Marie  took  us  to  buy  Papa's  news- 
paper. When  we  got  to  the  front  door,  it  was  rain- 
ing. So  Marie  left  us  in  the  bureau  and  told  us  to 
wait  until  she  returned.  But  the  valet  de  chambre 
came  along  with  his  wood-basket  empty.  He  always 
boasted  he  could  carry  any  basket  of  wood,  no  matter 
how  high  they  piled  it.  So  we  asked  if  he  could  carry 
us.  Immediately  he  made  us  jump  in,  and  told  us  we 
must  pretend  to  be  good  little  kittens,  and  little  kittens 
were  never  good  unless  they  were  quiet,  and  they  were 

8 


CHILDHOOD  VISTAS 

never  quiet  unless  they  were  asleep.  When  we  got  to 
our  room,  we  could  look  right  in  at  Papa  and  Mama 
through  the  transom.  We  reached  out  and  knocked. 
The  sound  came  from  so  high  up  that  Papa  looked 
curiously  at  the  door.  When  he  opened  it  we  ducked 
down  into  the  basket,  and  were  not  seen  until  the 
valet  dumped  us  out  on  the  bed. 

My  first  memory  of  a  negro  was  in  Paris.  Probably 
they  were  common  enough  in  Philadelphia  not  to  have 
made  an  impression  and  I  had  forgotten  that  there  were 
black  men.  I  was  paralyzed  with  fear,  thinking  I  saw 
Croqueminot  en  chair  et  en  os.  Marie  saved  me  by 
teaching  me  on  the  spot  to  stick  out  my  index  and 
little  fingers,  doubling  over  the  two  between.  This 
charm  against  evil  helped  and  comforted  me  greatly. 
I  found  it  useful  later  when  I  saw  suspicious-looking 
beggars  in  Rome.  Only,  although  the  gesture  was  the 
same,  it  was  jettatura  and  not  faire  les  comes  in  Italy, 
and  the  charm  was  more  efficacious  if  concealed.  I 
was  glad  my  dress  had  a  pocket. 

Mama  and  Marie  took  us  to  the  Louvre.  I  was 
filled  with  anticipation.  For  had  I  not  heard  some  one 
say  at  our  pension  that  she  had  bought  things  there  for 
a  song?  Why  spend  Papa's  money  if  just  a  song 
would  do"?  I  could  sing.  Marie  had  taught  me  a 
pretty  song  about  "La  Fauvette."  I  was  willing  to 
sing  if  I  could  get  a  doll's  trunk.  I  'd  sing  two  or 
three  songs  for  a  pair  of  gloves  with  white  fur  on  them. 

9 


PARIS  VISTAS 

But  when  I  sang  "La  Fauvette"  they  only  smiled  at 
me.  I  asked  the  saleslady  to  take  me  to  the  toy 
counter,  as  I  could  sing  again  for  things  I  wanted.  I 
had  to  explain  a  whole  lot  to  Mama  and  Marie  and 
the  saleslady.  I  suppose  I  cried  with  disappointment. 
Then  a  man  in  black  with  a  white  tie  came  along  and 
heard  the  story.  He  gave  me  a  red  balloon  and  Mama 
consoled  me  by  buying  me  a  blue  velvet  dress. 

A  few  months  before  the  war  I  was  walking  in  the 
Rue  Saint-Honore  with  an  old  American  friend  who 
was  doing  Paris.  He  was  brimming  over  with  French 
history.  Your  part  was  to  mention  the  name  of  the 
place  you  showed  him.  He  would  do  the  rest  with 
enthusiasm  and  a  wealth  of  detail. 

"What  is  that  church?'  he  asked. 

"Saint-Roch,"  I  answered. 

"Saint-Roch !  Saint-Roch !  Saint-Roch !"  he  cried 
in  crescendo.  "Of  course,  OF  COURSE,  because  this  is 
the  Rue  Saint-Honore.  The  Rue  Saint-Honore!" 
Beside  himself  with  excitement,  he  rushed  across  the 
street,  and  up  on  the  steps.  I  followed,  mystified. 
My  friend  was  waving  his  cane  when  I  reached  his 
side.  "It  was  here,"  he  announced,  as  if  he  had  made 
a  wonderful  discovery,  "right  on  this  spot." 

"In  Heaven's  name  what?"  I  queried. 

"The  beginning  of  the  most  glorious  epoch  of 
French  history,  the  birth  of  the  Napoleonic  era." 

And  then  he  told  me  the  story  of  how  young  Bona- 

10 


CHILDHOOD  VISTAS 

parte,  called  upon  to  prevent  a  mob  from  rushing  the 
Tuileries,  put  his  guns  on  the  steps  of  Saint-Roch, 
swept  the  street  in  both  directions,  and  demonstrated 
that  he  was  the  first  man  since  '89  who  could  dominate 
a  Parisian  crowd.  "You  would  n't  have  thought  there 
was  anything  interesting  about  this  old  church,  would 
you*?"  he  ended  triumphantly. 

My  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  my  lips  trembled. 
It  was  his  turn  to  be  mystified,  and  mine  to  lead.  I 
took  him  inside  the  church,  and  back  to  the  chapel  of 
Saint  Joseph.  "Here,"  I  said,  "on  Christmas  Eve  I 
came  with  my  father  when  I  was  five  years  old.  It 
was  the  first  time  I  remember  seeing  the  Nativity  pic- 
tured. Good  old  Joseph  looked  down  on  the  interior 
of  the  inn.  The  three  wise  men  were  there  with  the 
gifts.  Le  petit  Jesus  was  in  a  real  cradle,  and  I 
counted  the  jewels  around  the  Mother's  neck.  My 
father  tried  to  explain  to  me  what  Christmas  means. 
He  died  when  I  was  a  little  girl.  I  brought  my  first- 
born here  on  Christmas  Eve  and  the  others  as  they 
came  along.  I  never  knew  about  Napoleon's  connec- 
tion with  Saint-Roch  before.  And  you  asked  me 
whether  I  would  have  thought  there  was  anything  in- 
teresting about  this  old  church !" 

The  same  place  can  mean  so  many  different  things 
to  so  many  different  people.  Paris  was  Babylon  to 
my  grandfather  who  never  went  there.  And  to  those 
who  go  there  Paris  gives  what  they  seek,  historical 

11 


PARIS  VISTAS 

reminiscences,  esthetic  pleasure,  intellectual  profit,  in- 
spiration to  paint  or  sing  or  play,  a  surfeit  of  the 
mundane,  a  diminution  or  an  increase  of  the  sense  of 
nationality,  pretty  clothes  and  hats  and  perfumes,  "rat- 
tling" good  food  and  drink  or  a  "howling"  good  time. 
You  can  be  bored  in  Paris  just  as  quickly  and  as  com- 
pletely as  in  any  other  place  in  the  world.  You  can 
fill  your  life  full  of  interesting  and  engrossing  pursuits 
more  quickly  and  completely  than  in  any  other  place 
in  the  world.  Best  of  all  you  make  your  home  in 
Paris,  with  no  sense  of  exile,  and  enjoy  what  Paris 
alone  offers  in  material  and  spiritual  values  without 
being  abnormal  or  living  abnormally. 

My  childhood  vistas  seem  fragmentary  when  I  put 
them  down  on  paper.  But  they  have  meant  so  much 
to  me  that  I  could  choose  for  my  children  no  greater 
blessing  than  to  know  Paris  as  home  at  the  beginning 
of  their  lives. 


12 


1899 


CHAPTER  II 

AT    SIXTEEN 

THE  family  was  abroad  for  the  summer,  one  of 
those  delightful  May-first  to  October  thirty-first 
summers  when  school  is  missed  at  both  ends.  The 
itinerary  was  supposed  to  be  planned  by  letting  each 
member  drop  into  a  hat  slips  of  paper  indicating  pref- 
erences. Mother  was  astonishingly  good  about  con- 
sidering the  wishes  of  all.  But  as  the  trip  was  under- 
taken for  education  as  well  as  vacation,  the  head  of 
the  family  did  not  intend  to  make  it  aimless  ram- 
bling. Although,  to  get  full  benefit  of  the  strawberry 
season,  we  took  our  cathedrals  from  south  to  north  in 
England,  none  were  omitted.  By  the  time  we  reached 
Edinburg,  Roman,  Saxon,  Early  Norman  and  Gothic 
were  as  mixed  up  in  the  head  of  the  sixteen-year-old 
member  of  the  party  as  they  were  in  the  buildings  in- 
spected. "Inspected" — just  the  word  for  an  educa- 
tional tour !  Later  visits  to  East  Coast  cathedrals  have 
not  conquered  the  instinctive  desire  to  avoid  going  in- 
side. Impressions  of  places  were  vivid  enough.  But 
I  fear  Canterbury  meant  London  the  next  stop;  Ely 
a  place  near  Cambridge;  Peterborough  the  view  from 

15 


PARIS  VISTAS 

the  top  of  the  tower;  Lincoln  tea-cakes  that  crumbled 
in  one's  mouth;  York  a  mean  photographer  who  never 
sent  me  films  I  left  to  be  developed;  and  Durham  a 
batch  of  long-delayed  letters  from  boys  at  home. 

At  sixteen  strawberries  do  not  satisfy  hunger:  ca- 
thedrals do  not  feed  the  soul. 

No,  cathedrals  and  history  and  the  origin  of  the 
political  institutions  under  which  I  lived  interested 
me  very  mildly.  At  sixteen  one  is  too  young  to  have 
love  affairs  that  interfere  with  the  appetite,  and  too 
sophisticated  to  cling  to  the  dream  of  a  cloistered  con- 
vent life  that  followed  giving  up  the  hope  of  being  a 
chorus-girl.  The  mental  effort  of  preparing  for  col- 
lege (which  the  tour  abroad  was  to  stimulate)  could  not 
claim  me  to  the  exclusion  of  clothes  and  an  engross- 
ing  interest  in  the  doings  of  the  group  of  boys  and 
girls  who  formed  my  "crowd."  The  trip  abroad  was 
going  to  give  me  something  to  talk  about  at  dinner- 
parties and  the  advantage  of  wearing  clothes  bought  in 
Paris.  One  never  looks  forward  to  the  coming  win- 
ter with  as  keen  anticipation  as  during  the  sixteen-year- 
old  summer.  Hair  would  be  put  up,  and  dances  and 
dinners  were  a  certainty  for  every  Friday  and  Satur- 
day evening. 

If  you  believe  in  the  value  of  first  impressions  and  are 
in  a  mood  to  love  Paris,  plan  your  introduction  to  the 
queen  of  the  world  for  an  evening  in  June.  Do  not 
worry  about  your  baggage.  Send  a  porter  from  the 

16 


AT  SIXTEEN 

hotel  afterwards  for  your  trunks.  Find  a  fiacre  if  you 
can.  An  auto-taxi  is  second-best,  but  be  sure  that  the 
top  is  off.  Baisser  la  capote  is  a  simple  matter,  done 
in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  Of  course  the  chauffeur 
will  scold.  But  handling  cockers  and  chauffeurs  in 
Paris  requires  the  instinct  of  a  lion-tamer.  If  you  let 
the  animal  get  the  better  of  you,  you  are  gone.  You 
will  never  enjoy  Paris.  Mastery  of  Parisian  drivers, 
hippomobile  and  automobile,  does  not  require  a  knowl- 
edge of  French.  Your  man  will  understand  "put  down 
the  top"  accompanied  by  the  proper  gesture.  Whether 
he  puts  it  down  depends  upon  your  iron  will  and  not 
upon  your  French ! 

Best  of  all  stations  for  the  first  entry  to  Paris  is  the 
Gare  de  Lyon.  But  that  good  fortune  is  yours  only  if 
you  are  coming  from  Italy  or  Spain  or  if  you  have 
landed  at  Marseilles.  The  Dover  and  Boulogne  routes 
bring  you  to  the  Gare  du  Nord  and  the  Dieppe  and 
Havre  and  Cherbourg  routes  to  the  Gare  Saint-Lazare. 
In  any  case,  ask  to  be  driven  first  to  the  Pont-Neuf,  then 
along  the  quais  of  the  Rive  Gauche  to  the  Pont-Alex- 
andre  Trois,  then  to  the  Avenue  des  Champs-Elysees. 
Only  when  you  have  gone  over  this  itinerary  and  have 
passed  between  the  Grand  Palais  and  the  Petit  Palais 
are  you  ready  to  be  driven  to  your  hotel.  It  is  the  dif- 
ference between  seeing  a  girl  first  at  a  dance  or  a  gar- 
den-party or  running  into  her  by  accident  in  her  moth- 
er's kitchen  when  the  cook  is  on  a  strike. 

17 


PARIS  VISTAS 

How  often,  in  the  decades  that  have  passed  since 
June,  1899,  have  I  wished  that  the  return  to  Paris  had 
included  this  program,  not  only  initially  but  for  every 
June  and  July  evening  of  our  weeks  there.  But  it  did 
not.  The  passionate  love  of  Paris,  my  home  city,  that 
was  born  in  me  as  a  child,  that  was  re-awakened  and 
deepened  in  maturity,  did  not  manifest  itself  when  I 
was  a  school-girl  as  it  should  have  done.  The 
change  from  regular  lessons  to  the  governess-controlled 
days  of  sightseeing  was  not  as  amusing  at  the  time  as  it 
seems  in  retrospect.  Madame  Raymond  and  I  were 
not  made  for  each  other.  It  was  n't  incorrigibility  on 
my  part  or  severity  in  a  nasty  way  on  hers.  We  just 
pulled  in  different  directions,  and  shocked  each  other. 
It  began  on  the  first  day.  She  found  that  I  spoke 
French  well  enough  not  to  call  for  the  usual  effort  she 
had  to  make  with  American  girls  and  that  I  did  not 
need  to  be  told  the  names  of  monuments  and  jardins 
and  avenues.  The  memories  of  infancy  had  been  care- 
fully kept  alive  by  word  and  picture.  Mother  had 
seen  to  that.  Paris  meant  to  me  my  father.  Conse- 
quently, I  suppose  Madame  Raymond's  conscience 
stimulated  her  to  lay  stress  upon  history  and  art.  She 
wanted  to  earn  her  money. 

Mutual  lack  of  comprehension  began  immediately. 
My  first  reading  under  Madame  Raymond's  direction 
was  a  volume  of  Guy  de  Maupassant's  stories,  with 
markers  to  show  which  could  be  'read  and  which  were 

18 


AT  SIXTEEN 

forbidden.  Next  day  Madame  was  horrified  to  see  the 
markers  gone  and  to  learn  that  I  had  sat  up  late  reading 
without  censorship.  She  told  me  that  a  well-bred 
jeune  fille  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  reading  certain 
things,  and  refused  to  argue  about  it  when  I  asked  her 
why  a  jeune  fille  should  be  ashamed  of  reading  the 
stories  she  had  indicated  to  be  skipped. 

"To-day,"  said  Madame  Raymond,  "I  intend  to  take 
you  to  the  Cluny  Museum,  and  then  we  shall  begin  the 
Louvre." 

"But,"  I  protested,  "I  want  to  go  first  to  Morgan 
Harjes." 

"What  for*?  Madame  your  mother  gave  me  fifty 
francs  this  morning." 

"She  gave  me  a  hundred  and  fifty.  It  is  n't  for 
money.  I  want  my  letters." 

"If  there  are  any  letters  for  you,  Madame  your 
mother  will  give  them  to  you  if  it  is  good  for  you  to 
have  them!"  snapped  Madame  Raymond. 

"Fiddlesticks !    My  mother  does  n't  read  my  letters." 

"Letters  written  to  a  jeune  fille  of  sixteen  years  can 
easily  wait.  They  are  not  important.  Your  educa- 
tion is.  Anyway,  who  would  write  to  you  over  here*?" 

"Well,  there  is  Bill.  I  'm  crazy  to  know  if  he 
passed  his  examinations  for  Yale  and  how  he  liked  go- 
ing to  the  dance  at  the  Country  Club  with  Margaret 
when  he  asked  me  first.  Joe  and  Charlie  went  off  on 
a  fishing  trip  to  Canada  before  I  sailed,  and  I  've  been 

19 


PARIS  VISTAS 

waiting  a  month  to  know  if  they  caught  anything. 
Then  Harold.  He  's  an  older  man.  You  can  talk  to 
him  about  serious  things  and  his  advice  is  pretty  good. 
Naturally,  it  would  be — Harold  is  a  member  of  the  bar 
and  knows  lots." 

"But,"  said  Madame,  "you  mean  to  say  you  write 
to  men  and  men  write  to  you  *?" 

"Certainly.  Just  ask  mother.  Here,  I  know  how 
to  fix  it.  You  seem  to  be  in  a  hurry  to  go  to  the 
Museum.  If  it  interests  you,  go  right  along.  I  '11 
take  a  cab  to  the  bank  and  follow  you  later.  Meet  you 
at  the  Cluny  in  an  hour." 

"Alone!"  cried  Madame;  "my  conscience  would  not 
allow  it.  Your  mother  trusts  me." 

Madame  Raymond  hailed  a  cabby. 

"To  the  Cluny  Museum,"  said  she,  with  finality. 

In  its  setting,  the  Cluny  Museum  is  one  of  the  most 
delightful  spots  in  Paris.  On  the  Boulevard  Saint- 
Michel  and  the  Boulevard  Saint-Germain  one  has  the 
life  of  Paris  of  to-day.  Looking  out  from  the  little 
park  with  its  remains  of  Roman  baths  and  archseolog- 
ical  treasures  of  old  Lutetia  scattered  around  in  the 
shrubbery,  one  sees  a  fascinating  carrefour  of  the  Latin 
Quarter,  noisy,  bustling,  ever-changing.  It  is  a  con- 
trast more  striking  than  any  that  Rome  affords.  On 
the  other  side,  where  one  enters  the  Museum,  you  have 
the  atmosphere  of  the  middle  ages,  with  the  old  well 
and  the  court  yard  and  the  fifteenth-century  fagade. 

20 


AT  SIXTEEN 

Across  the  street,  the  great  buildings  of  the  Sorbonne 
and  College  de  France  seem  to  be  carrying  on  the  tradi- 
tions of  the  past.  But  if  you  had  to  go  inside  with  a 
governess  who  insisted  on  showing  you  everything  in 
every  room,  you  would  rebel  as  I  did. 

Madame  Raymond  did  not  have  it  all  in  her  head. 
She  peered  down  over  the  glass  cases  and  read  the  de- 
scriptions in  a  high  voice,  adding  pages  out  of  a  guide 
book  from  time  to  time.  She  was  near-sighted.  As 
she  droned  along,  I  plotted  a  scheme  for  kidnapping  her 
spectacles.  When  we  left,  I  had  seen  embroideries  and 
laces  and  carriages  and  cradles  and  slippers  of  famous 
people  and  stolen  stained-glass  windows  to  her  heart's 
content. 

We  went  to  Foyot's,  opposite  the  Luxembourg  Pal- 
ace, for  lunch.  After  the  meal  was  ordered,  the  waiter 
brought  the  carte  de  vins. 

"A  bottle  of  Medoc,"  said  Madame.  "I  prefer  red 
wine,  don't  you,  my  dear1?" 

"Plain  water  for  me.  No  mineral  water.  Eau 
fraiche  out  of  a  carafe,"  said  I. 

"Extraordinary!"  cried  Madame. 

"I  think  it  is  dreadful  to  drink  wine,"  I  protested, 
half  in  earnest  and  half  in  joke.  "The  Bible  says 
strong  drink  is  a  mockery.  The  first  thing  I  remember 
about  Sunday  school  is  that  text." 

"Ridiculous,"  said  Madame,  "table  wine  is  not  alco- 
hol." 

21 


PARIS  VISTAS 

"Yes,"  I  continued,  "but  it  is  the  first  steps  toward 
strong  drink.  You  are  going  to  order  a  fine  champagne 
with  your  coffee.  You  cannot  tell  me  that  brandy  is 
not  strong  drink." 

"Here  in  France,"  said  Madame,  "everybody  takes 
a  drink  and  nobody  gets  drunk.  You  must  under- 
stand, my  dear  child,  that  we  have  a  different  point  of 
view." 

"Maybe  you  don't  get  drunk,"  said  I,  "but  how 
about  what  one  sees  in  Brittany4?" 

"You  lack  respect,"  answered  Madame.  She  ig- 
nored Brittany.  In  France,  one  is  not  accustomed  to 
argue  with  a  sixteen-year-old  girl.  Questioning  the 
judgment  of  one's  elders  is  impertinent.  Since  I  have 
brought  up  my  own  children  in  France,  I  am  more 
than  half  won  over  to  French  ideas.  The  strong  in- 
dividualism of  the  American  child  shocks  me  now  in 
somewhat  the  same  way  as  my  "freshness"  must  have 
shocked  Madame  Raymond.  I  was  ready  to  contest 
her  belief  that  American  girls  had  no  manners.  I  have 
not  taught  my  children  to  courtesy — for  the  simple  rea- 
son that  it  is  no  longer  the  fashion  in  France.  But  I 
am  far  from  believing  now,  as  I  told  Madame  Ray- 
mond, that  courtesying  is  affectation.  And  I  fear  that 
my  children  have  had  the  example  of  French  children 
in  regard  to  wine.  I  am  trying  to  put  down  here  how 
I  was  at  sixteen.  When,  after  years  in  America,  I  re- 
turned to  France,  my  point  of  view  was  different. 

22 


AT  SIXTEEN 

But  about  some  things  maturity  has  not  changed  the 
opinion  of  a  pert  young  American  miss.  French  ideas 
of  sex  relationship  between  adolescents  seem  to  me 
now  as  they  did  then,  absurd  and  false.  Nor  have  I 
revised  my  opinion  about  high  heels  and  tight  corsets, 
powder  and  paint. 

It  was  Madame's  duty  to  take  me  to  the  dressmaker's. 
Before  my  dress  appeared  in  the  fitting  room,  I  was  put 
into  my  first  pair  of  corsets.  When  they  were  laced 
up,  I  rebelled,  took  a  long  breath,  and  stretched  them 
out  again.  Madame  Raymond  and  the  fitting  woman 
shook  their  heads  and  assured  me  that  my  dress  would 
not  fit.  My  governess  sided  with  the  girl,  when  she 
remonstrated  against  my  stretching  the  lacings.  I 
showed  little  interest,  too,  in  Madame  Raymond's  sug- 
gestion concerning  the  purchase  of  a  box  and  a  pretty 
puff  with  a  silk  rose-bud  for  a  handle,  which  was  to 
contain  pink  powder. 

"I  never  make  up,"  I  declared.  "If  you  put  powder 
and  other  stuff  on  your  face  when  you  are  young,  you 
are  not  far-sighted.  Ugh !  I  loathe  pink  powder." 

One  day  we  went  to  a  foire,  one  of  those  delightful 
open-air  second-hand  markets  that  never  cease  to  fas- 
cinate Parisians.  A  man  darted  out  from  a  booth  and 
offered  to  sell  me  a  wedding  gown. 

"How  much  is  that  dress?"  I  inquired. 

"Two  hundred  francs,  Mademoiselle." 

"Let  me  see.  I  wonder  if  it  is  big  enough  for  me. 

23 


PARIS  VISTAS 

I  'm  getting  married  next  week.  This  would  save  me 
the  bother  of  having  one  made,  rfest-ce  pas?" 

"Certainly,  Mademoiselle,"  cried  the  merchant  de- 
lighted. 

He  pulled  out  his  tape-line  and  was  preparing  to 
measure  me  when  Madame  dragged  me  away. 

"It  is  not  convenable,  what  you  are  doing,"  she  ex- 
claimed heatedly.  "You  must  not  speak  lightly  of 
marriage." 

"Oh,  it  comes  to  us  all  like  death  or  whooping- 
cough." 

I  must  not  give  the  impression  that  my  mind  at  six- 
teen was  absolutely  insensible  to  historical  sight-seeing 
and  the  art  treasures  of  Paris.  I  always  have  loved 
some  of  the  things  in  the  Louvre,  and  after  the  Great 
War  broke  out,  I  discovered  what  a  privation  it  was 
not  to  be  able  to  drop  in  when  I  passed  to  look  at  some- 
thing in  the  Luxembourg  or  the  Louvre.  But  I  did 
not  like  overdoses.  And  I  have  never  gotten  accus- 
tomed to  crowds  of  pictures  all  at  once  in  the  field  of 
vision  or  cabinets  and  glass-covered  cases  filled  with  a 
bewildering  variety  of  bibelots.  How  I  came  to  enjoy 
the  Musee  du  Louvre  will  be  told  in  a  later  chapter  of 
the  decade  after  Madame  Raymond.  Why  should  I 
not  confess  frankly  that  at  sixteen  I  was  more  interested 
in  the  Magazin  du  Louvre,  even  though  I  knew  I  could 
no  longer  hope  to  purchase  what  I  wanted  there  "for  a 
song"?  The  best  thing  I  took  away  from  Paris  in 

24 


AT  SIXTEEN 

1899  was  an  evening-dress  with  a  low  neck — my  first 
to  go  with  hair  put  up.  It  was  in  the  middle  tray  of 
my  trunk,  packed  with  tissue  paper  and  sachet.  I  can 
see  now  the  different  colored  flowers  woven  into  the 
soft  cream  of  its  background  in  such  a  way  that,  accord- 
ing to  the  girdle  you  chose  to  put  on,  your  color  effect 
in  night  light  could  be  lavender,  blue  or  rose. 

Ten  years  before  my  father  had  taught  me  to  love 
to  ride  on  the  top  of  an  omnibus,  on  the  imfwiale,  as 
the  French  called  it.  Alas  that  I  should  have  to  use 
the  past  tense  here.  Imperiales,  still  the  fashion  on 
Fifth  Avenue  and  Riverside  Drive,  disappeared  from 
Paris  before  the  war.  I  shall  tell  later  of  the  last 
horse-driven  omnibus.  The  auto-buses  started  out  with 
imperialef,  but  banished  the  upstairs  in  1912  and  1913. 
They  were  still  the  vogue  in  1908.  Madame  Ray- 
mond objected  to  the  imperiale.  She  hated  climbing 
up  and  down  the  little  stairs,  especially  when  carrying 
an  umbrella  prevented  proper  circumspection  in  regard 
to  gathering  in  skirts.  And  by  riding  inside  one 
avoided  a  courant  d'air. 

On  a  sunshiny  day  with  a  long  ride  ahead  of  us,  I 
could  not  bear  the  thought  of  submitting  to  my  gover- 
ness's whim.  I  forgot  my  manners  and  jumped  on 
first.  With  this  advantage  I  was  able  to  climb  quickly 
to  the  top.  There  was  nothing  else  for  Madame  Ray- 
mond to  do  but  slip  the  guide-book  hastily  into  her 
black  silk  bag  and  climb  up  after  me.  A  man  in 


PARIS  VISTAS 

uniform  came  along  and  stopped  in  front  of  me.  I 
was  reading,  and  did  not  look  up  when  I  offered  him 
the  necessary  coppers.  He  took  my  money  and  sat 
down  beside  me.  Then  he  laughed  and  handed  it  back 
to  me.  He  was  a  sous-lieutenant  of  the  French  army. 
I  was  not  confused  by  my  mistake,  for  he  gallantly  took 
it  as  an  opening.  We  chatted  in  English.  Madame 
Raymond  plucked  at  my  sleeve,  whispering  admoni- 
tions. I  was  deaf  on  that  side.  Finally  she  told  me 
that  we  had  reached  our  destination,  got  up  and  started 
down.  Naturally  I  followed.  I  found  that  we  were 
still  several  blocks  away  from  where  we  were  going. 
We  both  held  our  tempers  until  we  got  off.  Then  the 
fur  began  to  fly.  That  night  my  adventure  was  re- 
tailed to  Mother  at  the  hotel  in  the  Rue  de  la  Tremoille. 
Mother  sided  with  the  governess. 

But  the  next  week,  when  we  were  at  the  Opera  one 
night,  I  met  my  officer  on  the  Grand  Escalier.  He 
came  right  up  to  me,  and  I  didn't  have  it  in  my  heart 
to  turn  my  back  or  treat  him  coolly.  When  my  gover- 
ness turned  around,  she  recognized  him.  I  did  not  bat 
an  eyelash.  I  introduced  him  to  Mother  and  to  her 
and  he  managed  to  get  an  invitation  from  Mother  to 
call  on  us.  This  is  the  only  time  I  was  ever  glad  about 
the  long  intermission — the  interminable  intermission — 
between  acts  at  the  Paris  Opera.  Afterwards,  nothing 
I  could  say  would  convince  Madame  Raymond  that  the 
second  meeting  was  pure  hazard.  She  told  me  that  she 

26 


AT  SIXTEEN 

knew  he  had  slipped  me  his  address  and  I  had  written 
to  him  to  arrange  the  rendez-vous.  This  did  not  make 
me  mad.  What  did  make  me  furious  was  her  con- 
demnation of  the  supposed  intrigue  solely  on  the 
ground  of  my  age  and  my  unmarried  state.  When 
does  a  girl  cease  being  too  young  to  talk  to  men  in 
France?  And  why  should  it  not  be  worse  for  a  married 
woman  than  for  an  unmarried  woman  to  encourage  a 
little  attention? 

These  questions  interested  me  later  as  much  as  they 
did  then.  Was  the  Old  World  so  different  from  the 
New  World  or  was  I  taking  for  granted  both  a  latitude 
and  an  attitude  at  home  different  from  what  I  was 
going  to  meet?  Little  did  I  realize  that  I  was  destined 
to  live  in  Paris  as  a  bride  and  to  bring  up  my  children 
there  to  the  age  when  I  should  have  these  problems  to 
face  from  the  standpoint  of  a  mother  of  three  girls. 


CHAPTER  III 

A    HONEYMOON    PROMISE 

WE  left  Oxford  very  suddenly.  Six  weeks  in  the 
Bodleian  Library,  in  spite  of  canoeing  every 
afternoon,  sufficed  to  go  through  a  collection  of  con- 
temporary pamphlets  about  the  Guises.  And  then  we 
were  getting  hungry.  Since  he  never  changes  the  menu, 
roast  beef  and  roast  lamb  alternating  night  after  night, 
and  accompanied  by  naked  potatoes  and  cabbage,  must 
content  the  Englishman.  But  all  who  have  not  a 
British  birthright  either  lose  their  appetites  or  go  wild 
after  a  time.  We  thought  that  we  could  not  stand 
another  day  of  seeing  that  awful  two-compartment 
vegetable  dish.  It  never  contained  a  surprise.  You 
could  swear  with  safety  to  your  soul  that  when  the 
lid  was  lifted  a  definite  combination  of  white  and  green 
would  meet  your  eye. 

So,  when  in  the  early  days  of  July  nineteen  hundred 
and  eight  the  London  newspapers  published  telegrams 
from  Constantinople  that  foreshadowed  startling 
changes  in  Turkey,  we  were  ready  to  flit.  We  had 
planned  to  spend  our  honeymoon  winter  in  Asia  Minor, 
anyway,  and  thought  we  might  as  well  get  out  there  as 
soon  as  possible.  The  spirit  of  adventure  is  strong  in 

31 


PARIS  VISTAS 

the  blood  of  the  twenties  and  decisions  are  made  with- 
out reflection.  It  is  great  to  be  young  enough  to  have  a 
sudden  change  of  plans  matter  to  none,  least  of  all  to 
oneself.  On  Monday  afternoon  we  were  canoeing  on 
the  Cherwell,  with  no  other  thought  than  the  very 
pleasant  one  of  doing  the  same  thing  on  the  morrow. 
The  next  afternoon  we  were  in  a  train  speeding  from 
Calais  to  Paris,  trying  to  recuperate  from  the  Channel 
passage. 

Herbert  and  I  both  knew  Paris.  But  we  did  not 
know  Paris  together,  and  that  made  all  the  difference 
in  the  world.  When  we  reached  the  Gare  du  Nord, 
we  were  as  filled  with  the  joy  of  the  unknown  as  if  we 
had  been  entering  Timbuktoo.  On  the  train  we  dis- 
cussed hotels.  A  slim  pocketbook  was  the  only  bank 
in  the  world  to  draw  upon  for  a  long  journey.  On  the 
other  side  was  the  less  commonsense  but  more  con- 
vincing argument,  that  this  was  once  in  our  lives,  and 
that  if  it  ever  was  excusable  to  do  things  up  right,  now 
was  the  time.  The  pocketbook  was  so  slim,  however, 
that  until  we  stepped  out  into  the  dazzling  lights,  we 
were  not  altogether  sure  that  it  would  not  be  a  modest 
little  hotel.  We  compounded  with  prudence  by  hailing 
a  fiacre  instead  of  one  of  the  new  auto-taxis,  and  di- 
rected the  cocker  to  take  us  where  we  wanted  to  go. 

It  was  the  thought  of  being  in  the  heart  of  things, 
right  at  the  Place  de  POpera,  that  prompted  us  to 
choose  the  Grand  Hotel.     The  price  of  rooms  was  pre- 
32 


•WlHWififfWK 


A  HONEYMOON  PROMISE 

posterous.  We  took  the  cheapest  they  had  on  the  top 
floor.  The  economical  choice  is  sometimes  the  lucky 
one.  Next  time  you  are  in  the  Place  de  1'Opera,  look 
up  to  the  attic  of  the  Grand  Hotel,  and  you  will  see 
little  balconies  between  the  windows.  Each  window 
represents  a  room.  So  does  each  balcony.  We  drew 
a  balcony.  It  was  just  wide  enough  for  two  honey- 
moon chairs;  and  it  was  summer  time. 

When  I  was  waiting  in  the  vestibule  of  a  New  York 
church  for  the  first  strains  of  the  wedding  march,  my 
brother  pressed  a  five-dollar  gold  piece  inside  my  white 
glove.  "For  a  bang-up  dinner  when  you  get  to  Lon- 
don," he  whispered.  In  London  we  had  been  enter- 
tained by  friends.  This  was  the  time  to  spend  it.  The 
initiated  would  open  his  eyes  wide  at  the  thought  of 
the  "bang-up"  dinner  for  two  for  twenty-five  francs  in 
Paris  today — or  anywhere  else  in  the  world.  But  re- 
member I  am  writing  about  nineteen  hundred  and 
eight.  Six  years  before  the  war,  twenty-five  francs 
would  do  the  trick,  and  do  it  well,  on  the  Grands 
Boulevards.  We  had  fried  chicken  with  peas,  salad 
and  fruits  rafraichis  at  Pousset's,  and  there  was  some 
change  after  a  liberal  (ante-bellum!)  tip. 

After  dinner  we  strolled  along  the  Boulevards  des 
Italiens.  We  came  to  a  big  white  place,  with  a  wealth 
of  electric  lamps,  that  spelled  PATHE— PALACE.  A 
barker  walked  up  and  down  in  front,  wearing  a  gold- 
braided  cap  and  a  green  redingote.  We  paused  as  at 

33 


PARIS  VISTAS 

the  circus.  It  was  a  cinema.  Herbert  wanted  to  go  in, 
but  I  was  n't  sure.  I  had  never  seen  moving  pictures 
and  had  heard  that  they  hurt  one's  eyes.  To  be  a  good 
sport  I  yielded.  It  was  a  revelation  to  me,  and  I  felt 
as  I  did  a  year  or  two  later  when  I  first  saw  an  aero- 
plane. My  censor  and  literary  critic,  who  has  not  the 
imagination  of  an  Irishman,  wants  to  eliminate  this 
paragraph.  But  I  have  refused.  It  is  true  that  I 
had  never  been  to  the  cinema  before  I  married  him, 
and  I  am  not  sure  that  it  was  not  his  first  time,  too. 
The  wonders  of  one  decade  are  the  commonplace  of  the 
next,  and  in  retrospect  we  should  not  forget  this. 
"Nineteen-eight"  was  to  be  the  wonder  year.  Is  there 
not  an  old  Princeton  song,  still  in  the  book,  which  was 
sung  with  expectation  by  our  fathers'?  It  went  some- 
thing like  this : 

I  '11  sing  of  the  days  that  will  come, 

Of  the  changes  that  many  won't  see, 

Of  the  times  years  and  years  hence. 

I  can  tell  you  where  some  of  you  '11  be : 

If  you  don't  know  I  '11  give  you  the  tip. 

So  catch  on  and  don't  be  too  late: 

If  you  do,  you  '11  get  left  and  you  '11  all  lose  your  grip 

In  the  year  nineteen  hundred  and  eight. 

And  then  the  chorus,  as  they  used  to  sing  it — that 
older  generation — on  the  steps  of  Nassau  Hall : 

In  nineteen  hundred  and  eight,  in  nineteen  hundred  and  eight 
You  can  go  to  the  moon  in  a  two  day  balloon ; 

34 


A  HONEYMOON  PROMISE 

In  nineteen  hundred  and  eight,  in  nineteen  hundred  and  eight 
To  the  north  pole  you  can  skate, 

And  you  '11  find  Annie  Laurie  cutting  grass  on  the  Bowery, 
In  nineteen  hundred  and  eight. 

After  the  movies  we  went  back  to  the  Hotel,  and  sat 
out  on  our  balcony  with  the  brilliant  vistas  of  the 
Avenue  de  1'Opera  and  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens  be- 
fore us.  We  could  hear  the  music  of  the  opera  or- 
chestra, faintly  to  be  sure,  but  it  was  there.  The 
spell  of  six  and  sixteen  came  back.  Nearly  another 
decade  had  passed,  but  Paris  was  home  to  me,  and  I 
had  a  twinge  of  regret  that  we  were  going  farther  afield. 
Had  it  not  been  for  the  news  of  Niazi  Bey  and  Enver 
taking  to  the  mountains  in  a  revolt  against  the  Sultan, 
I  might  have  suggested  giving  up  Turkey. 

I  was  glad  that  we  would  have  to  stay  long  enough 
to  get  our  passports.  The  passport,  now  the  indispen- 
sable vade  mecum  of  travelers  everywhere,  was  needed 
only  for  Rumania  and  Turkey  and  Russia  ten  years 
ago.  To  make  up  for  the  extravagance  of  the  Grand 
Hotel  we  found  our  way  to  the  American  Embassy  and 
the  Turkish  Embassy  afoot.  Every  corner  of  the 
Champs-Elysees  had  brought  back  memories  to  me  and 
I  was  able  to  point  out  to  Herbert  the  guignol  to  which 
Marie  had  often  taken  my  little  sister  and  me  nearly 
twenty  years  before.  We  stopped  to  listen.  Some  of 
the  jokes  were  just  the  same.  Judy  had  lost  the  stove- 
lid,  and  Punch  told  her  to  sit  on  the  hole  herself.  And 

35 


PARIS  VISTAS 

a  useful  and  indispensable  nursery  household  article 
(whose  name  I  shall  not  mention)  was  suddenly 
clapped  by  Punch  over  the  policeman's  head  in  the 
same  old  way.  The  children  laughed  and  clapped 
their  hands  in  glee.  Herbert,  on  his  side,  showed  me 
the  walk  he  used  to  take  every  morning  from  his  room 
on  the  Rue  d' Amsterdam  by  the  Rue  de  la  Boetie  and 
the  Avenue  d'Antin  *  to  the  Exposition  of  1900,  when 
he  was  writing  feature  stories  for  the  Sunday  edition 
of  the  New  York  World. 

With  passports  obtained  and  visaed,  tickets  bought 
and  baggage  registered,  we  were  having  our  last  meal 
in  Paris  before  taking  the  train  for  Rome.  It  was  a 
late  breakfast  on  the  terrasse  of  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix. 
The  waiter  was  not  surprised  when  we  ordered  eggs 
with  our  coffee :  but  we  were  when  we  found  they  cost 
a  franc  apiece.  As  we  sat  there,  at  the  most  interest- 
ing vantage  point  in  Paris  for  seeing  the  passing  crowd, 
my  childhood  instinct  came  back  with  force.  I  cried, 
"O !  I  do  want  to  come  here  to  live  when  we  return  from 
Turkey!" 

Herbert  had  a  fellowship  from  Princeton  for  foreign 
study.  It  had  been  postponed  a  year  so  that  he  could 
teach  for  a  winter  at  an  American  college  in  Asia 
Minor.  Then  and  there  we  made  a  decision  that  was 
prophetic.  All  the  other  men  were  going  to  Germany. 

i  The  Avenue  d'Antin  has  become  since  the  victory  in  the  recent 
war  Avenue  Victor  Emmanuel  III.,  in  honor  of  Italy's  intervention. 

36 


A  HONEYMOON  PROMISE 

The  German  universities  were  a  powerful  attraction 
for  American  university  men.  The  German  Ph.D.  was 
almost  a  sine  qua  non  in  our  educational  system.  You 
could  not  get  a  Ph.D.  in  England  or  in  France.  Her- 
bert gallantly  sacrificed  his  on  the  spot.  It  was  not  a 
revolt  against  Kultur.  Nor  was  it  clairvoyance. 

"On  one's  honeymoon,"  Herbert  said,  "the  wife's 
wish  should  be  law.  The  man  who  starts  endeavoring 
to  get  the  woman  he  has  married  to  realize  that  the 
things  to  do  are  the  things  he  thinks  should  be  done  gets 
into  trouble,  and  stays  in  trouble." 

The  last  thing  we  were  looking  for  on  that  perfect 
July  morning  was  trouble. 

"All  right,"  said  he,  "we  '11  come  back  and  study  in 
Paris,  and  if  you  want  to  live  here  afterwards,  I  guess 
we  can  find  some  way  to  do  it." 


37 


1909-1910 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    PROMISE    FULFILLED 

IT  was  alcohol!  He  was  right,  that  old  buck.  It 
was  alcohol !" 

We  were  sitting  in  the  restaurant  of  the  Hotel  Ter- 
minus in  Marseilles.  Our  month-old  baby  was  lying 
on  the  cushioned  seat  between  us.  The  maitre  d'hotel 
told  us  she  was  the  youngest  lady  that  had  ever  come  to 
his  establishment.  Bowls  of  coffee  were  before  us  on 
the  table,  and  we  were  enjoying  our  French  breakfast 
when  Herbert  burst  out  with  the  remark  I  have  just 
recorded. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you*?"  I  asked. 

Shaking  with  laughter,  he  told  me  the  story. 

"You  know  the  basket  with  breakables  in  it*?  And 
those  two  champagne  bottles  Major  Dough ty-Wylie 
gave  us?" 

"One  of  them  had  boracic  acid  in  it.     Well?" 

"Yes,  yes,  that  is  just  it.  The  customshouse  officer 
spied  the  bottles  and  it  did  not  take  him  long  to  uncork 
one  and  smell  it.  He  wanted  to  stick  me  for  duty." 

"What  did  you  do?" 

"Protested  against  paying  duty  on  boracic  acid  solu- 

41 


PARIS  VISTAS 

tion.  I  pointed  you  out  to  him  sitting  over  there  with 
the  baby.  He  yielded  finally — observing  that  Amer- 
icans are  queer,  tough  customers,  and  that  their  babies 
must  be  husky  if  their  eyes  can  stand  such  stuff.  But 
he  got  the  wrong  bottle.  Don't  you  remember  that  in 
the  second  one  is  pure  grape  alcohol,  and  that  is  what 
he  sniffed." 

Traveling  with  a  baby,  when  tickets  do  not  allow 
one  to  take  the  rapide  sleeping-cars,  has  its  good  points. 
People  do  not  care  to  spend  the  night  in  a  compartment 
with  a  baby.  We  got  to  the  train  early — very  early. 
We  put  Christine's  wicker  basket  (her  bed)  by  the  door, 
and  found  it  to  be  the  best  kind  of  a  "reserved"  sign. 
Half  a  hundred  travelers  poked  their  heads  in — and 
passed  on.  The  sight  of  Christine  acted  like  magic 
to  our  advantage.  The  baby  started  to  cry.  "Don't 
feed  her  yet,"  ordered  her  dad.  "Until  this  train 
starts,  the  louder  she  cries  the  better  for  her  later  com- 
fort." As  the  wheels  began  to  move,  a  man  came  in, 
put  his  bag  on  the  rack  and  sat  down.  Laughing,  he 
closed  the  door  and  pulled  down  the  curtain. 

"I  have  been  watching  you,"  said  he.  "Yours  is  a 
clever  game.  I  have  three  little  cabbages  myself,  and 
I  know  babies  don't  disturb  people  as  much  as  those 
who  have  none  think.  No,"  he  added,  "I  must  correct 
myself,  thinking  of  my  mother  and  my  mother-in-law. 
Even  those  who  have  had  many  babies  forget  in  the 
course  of  time  how  they  were  once  used  to  them. 

42 


THE  PROMISE  FULFILLED 
We  '11    have    a    comfortable    night.     Have    a    cigar, 


monsieur!" 


We  did  have  a  splendid  sleep.  Christine  has  always 
been  one  of  those  wonder  babies.  So  we  were  ready  to 
see  Paris  cheerfully.  Heaven  knows  we  needed  every 
possible  help  to  being  cheerful !  For  we  were  em- 
barked upon  a  venture  that  looked  more  serious  than  it 
had  the  year  before.  A  pair  of  youngsters  can  knock 
around  happily  without  worrying  about  uncertainties. 
A  baby  means  a  home — and  certain  unavoidable  ex- 
penses. Where  your  progeny  is  concerned,  you  can't 
just  do  without.  We  had  two  hundred  and  fifty 
francs  in  cash,  and  the  prospect  of  a  six  hundred  dollar 
fellowship,  payable  in  quarterly  installments.  That 
was  all  we  could  count  upon.  Our  only  other  asset 
was  some  correspondence  sent  to  the  New  York  Herald 
that  had  not  been  ordered,  but  for  which  we  hoped  to 
be  paid. 

The  Marseilles  express  used  to  arrive  at  Paris  at  an 
outlandish  hour.  It  was  not  yet  six  when  we  were 
ready  to  leave  the  Gare  de  Lyon.  Two  porters,  laden 
down  with  hand-luggage,  asked  where  we  wanted  to  go. 
We  did  not  know.  The  Paris  hotels  that  had  been 
our  habitats  in  days  past  were  no  longer  possible,  even 
temporarily.  There  was  no  mother  to  foot  my  bills, 
and  Herbert  was  n't  a  bachelor  with  only  his  own  room 
and  food  to  pay  for.  I  suggested  the  possibility  of  a 
small  hotel  by  the  station.  The  porters  took  us  out  on 

43 


PARIS  VISTAS 

the  Boulevard  Diderot.  Across  the  street  was  a  hotel 
(whose  gilt  letters,  however,  did  not  omit  the  invariable 
adjective  "grand")  that  looked  within  our  means. 

Once  settled  and  breakfasted,  the  family  council 
tackled  the  first  problem — Scrappie,  gurgling  on  the 
big  bed.  Ever  since  she  was  born  we  had  been  travel- 
ing, and  she  naturally  had  to  be  with  us  all  the  time. 
Only  now,  after  five  weeks  of  parenthood,  did  the  novel 
and  amazing  fact  dawn  upon  us  that  no  longer  could 
we  "just  go  out."  Scrappie  was  to  be  considered. 
Without  Scrappie,  we  could  have  set  forth  immediately 
upon  our  search  for  a  place  to  live.  With  Scrappie — *? 

There  always  is  a  deus  ex  machina.  In  our  case  it 
was  a  dea.  Marie  still  lived  in  Paris.  The  contact  had 
never  been  lost,  and  when  we  went  through  Paris  on 
our  honeymoon  the  year  before,  I  had  taken  my  hus- 
band to  show  him  off  to  Marie.  It  was  decided  that 
I  should  go  out  immediately  and  find  her.  A  month 
before  we  had  written  that  we  were  coming  to  Paris  in 
June,  and  she  would  be  expecting  us.  Marie,  and 
Marie  alone,  meant  freedom  of  movement.  I  could 
not  think  of  trusting  my  baby  to  anyone  else. 

The  address  was  at  the  tip  of  my  tongue — 22  Rue  de 
Wattignies.  A  few  people  know  vaguely  of  the  battle, 
but  how  many  life-long  Parisians  know  the  street? 
Not  the  boulevardiers  or  the  faubouriens  of  Saint- 
Germain,  or  the  Americans,  North  and  South,  of  the 
Etoile  Quarter.  And  yet  the  Rue  de  Wattignies  is  an 

44 


THE  PROMISE  FULFILLED 

artery  of  importance,  copiously  inhabited.  We  had 
gone  in  a  cab  last  year,  and  remembered  that  it  was 
somewhere  beyond  the  Bastille.  At  the  corner  of  the 
street  beyond  our  hotel,  just  opposite  the  great  clock 
tower  of  the  Gare  de  Lyon,  I  saw  the  Bastille  column 
not  far  away.  Why  waste  money  on  cabs?  To  the 
right  of  the  Bastille  lay  the  Rue  de  Wattignies,  and 
not  very  far  to  the  right.  I  remembered  perfectly,  and 
started  out  unhesitatingly. 

Oh,  the  Paris  vistas !  No  other  city  in  the  world  has 
every  hill  top,  every  great  open  space,  marked  by  a 
building  or  monument  that  beckons  to  you  at  the  end  of 
boulevard  or  avenue.  No  other  city  in  the  world  has 
familiar  dome  or  tower  or  steeple  popping  up  over 
housetops  in  the  distance  to  reassure  you  wherever  you 
may  have  wandered,  that  you  are  not  far  from,  and  that 
you  can  always  find  your  way  to,  a  familiar  spot.  The 
Eiffel  Tower,  the  Great  Wheel,  the  Arc  de  Triomphe, 
Sacre  Coeur,  the  Pantheon,  Val-de-Grace,  the  Invalides, 
the  Tour  St.  Jacques,  give  you  your  direction.  But 
when  you  dip  into  Paris  streets,  on  your  way  to  the 
goal,  you  are  lost.  Even  constant  reference  to  a  map 
and  long  experience  do  not  save  you  from  the  deceptive 
encouragement  of  Paris  vistas.  You  can  walk  in 
circles  almost  interminably. 

I  had  done  this  so  often  in  the  old  days  when  I  es- 
caped from  my  governess.  I  did  so  again  when  I  tried 
to  find  the  Rue  de  Wattignies.  Perhaps  I  did  not  try 

45 


PARIS  VISTAS 

very  hard:  for  one  never  minds  wandering  in  Paris. 
The  life  of  the  streets  is  a  witchery  that  makes  one 
forgot  time  and  distance  and  goal.  When  I  lost  sight 
of  the  Bastille  column,  the  labyrinth  of  St.  Antoine 
streets  led  me  on  until  I  had  crossed  the  canal  and  found 
myself  by  the  Hopital  St.  Louis.  After  the  year  in  the 
East,  and  years  before  that  in  America,  old  houses  and 
street  markets  held  me  in  a  new  world.  It  was  a 
glorious  June  day  to  boot,  and  after  steamer  and  train, 
walking  was  a  keen  pleasure.  Marital  and  parental 
responsibilities  were  forgotten.  The  Hopital  St. 
Louis  brought  me  back  to  the  realities  of  life.  I  knew 
that  it  was  north  of  the  Bastille,  and  not  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Rue  de  Wattignies.  Suddenly  there  came 
uneasily  into  my  mind  the  picture  of  a  husband,  a 
prisoner,  patiently  waiting  in  a  very  small  room  in  a 
very  small  hotel,  and  a  baby  demanding  lunch.  Con- 
science insisted  upon  a  cab:  for  nearly  two  hours  had 
passed  since  I  started  forth  to  find  Marie.  I  had  left 
the  hotel  early  enough  to  catch  her  before  she  might 
have  gone  out.  What  if  Marie  should  not  be  at  home1? 
"Hurry,  cocker!" 

My  panic  was  unjustified.  Marie  was  at  home. 
Delighted  to  hear  of  our  arrival,  and  eager  to  see  her 
petite  Helene's  baby,  she  put  on  her  funny  little  black 
hat,  and  went  right  down  to  the  waiting  cab. 

When  we  got  to  the  hotel,  Herbert  was  eating  a 
second  mid-morning  petit  dejeuner.  He  had  a  copy 


THE  PROMISE  FULFILLED 

of  the  Paris  edition  of  the  New  York  Herald,  and 
showed  me,  well  played  up  in  a  prominent  place,  the 
last  of  the  Adana  massacre  stories  he  had  forwarded  by 
mail  from  Turkey.  This  was  the  first  time  he  realized 
that  his  "stuff"  had  been  exclusive.  There  was  a 
pleasant  prospect  of  drawing  a  little  money.  So  my 
long  absence  brought  forth  no  remark,  specially  as 
Scrappie  had  slept  like  an  angel. 

"We  played  a  wise  game,"  said  Herbert,  "when  we 
sent  the  stories  smuggled  through  Cyprus  to  the  Herald. 
We  shall  not  have  to  correspond  with  New  York  on  a 
slim  chance  of  a  newspaper's  gratitude.  We  can  get  at 
James  Gordon  Bennet  right  here  in  Paris."  Then  he 
showed  me  some  advertisements  picked  out  in  the 
column  of  pensions  as  promising  and  within  our  means. 
We  had  decided  to  consider  nothing  outside  of  the  Latin 
Quarter. 

Marie  had  not  changed  a  bit.  She  could  not  say  the 
same  for  me  although  she  fussed  over  me  as  if  I  were 
five  going  on  six.  She  forgot  that  twenty  years  had 
gone  since  the  last  time  she  combed  my  hair.  She 
communicated  to  me  the  old  sense  of  security.  She 
bathed  the  baby.  She  brought  me  food  and  sat  beside 
me,  observing  that  long  ago  she  had  to  coax  me  to  take 
one  more  mouthful  to  please  her. 

"You  always  were  fussy  about  your  food.  Ma  chere 
petite  Helene,  you  don't  eat  enough  to  keep  a  sparrow 
alive.  You  are  a  naughty  one." 

47 


PARIS  VISTAS 

She  insisted  upon  my  drinking  a  cup  of  camomile 
tea,  and  took  me  straight  back  to  my  sixth  year  by 
calling  it  pipi  du  chat.  Knowing  that  name  for 
camomile  tea  is  one  of  the  tests  of  whether  one  really 
knows  French. 

"Marie,"  I  begged,  "show  me  how  English  people 
speak  French — the  way  you  used  to  do!" 

But  Herbert,  who  had  gone  out  to  get  the  Daily 
Mail  for  its  pension  list,  was  coming  in  the  door,  and 
Marie  would  not  show  off  before  Monsieur.  Never 
did  she  call  me  chere  petite  Helene  when  he  or  any  other 
person  was  present.  It  was  always  Madame  before 
company.  The  Mail  had  many  advertisements  of 
pensions  in  streets  near  the  Luxembourg.  Marie 
helped  us  pick  them  out.  The  Luxembourg  Garden 
was  an  integral  part  of  the  Latin  Quarter,  and  we  had 
to  think  of  Scrappie's  outing. 

After  lunch  we  turned  Christine  over  thankfully  to 
Marie  and  went  out  pension-hunting  together. 

"You  were  lucky  in  finding  Marie,"  was  all  Herbert 
said. 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "I  really  could  n't  have  left  the 
baby  with  anyone  else." 

"But  is  Marie  the  only  person  in  the  world  ^  With- 
out her,  would  you  be  a  slave  for  ever  and  ever?  There 
must  be  plenty  of  people  that  we  could  get  to  look 
after  Scrappie." 


THE  PROMISE  FULFILLED 

"You  don't  know  what  it  means  to  have  a  child!" 
said  Scrappie's  mother. 

"I  guess  I  look  pretty  healthy  for  a  fellow  who  has 
just  landed  in  Paris  with  a  wife  and  a  baby  and  250 
francs !"  said  my  husband. 

"Can't  make  us  mad,"  said  I;  "we  're  in  Paris." 

You  pile  up  on  one  side  of  the  scale  heaps  of  things 
that  ought  to  worry  you,  but  if  you  put  on  the  other 
side  the  fact  that  you  are  in  Paris,  down  goes  the  Paris 
side  with  a  sure  and  cheerful  bang,  up  goes  the  other 
side,  and  the  worries  tumble  off  every  which  way  into 
nowhere. 

The  main  threads  of  the  world's  spider  web  start 
very  far  from  Paris  in  all  directions  and  the  heaviest 
urge  of  traffic  is  towards  the  centre.  Paris  was  the 
centre  of  the  spider  web  long  before  Peace  Delegates 
came  here  to  discover  the  fact.  Students,  diplomats, 
travel-agencies,  theatrical  troupes  knew  it  and  whole 
shelves  of  books  have  been  written,  down  the  years,  to 
prove  it.  If  Paris  is  your  birth-place,  you  learn  that 
you  are  in  the  capital  of  the  world  long  before  you 
know  how  to  read  the  books.  If  you  are  an  expert  on 
ancient  coins,  if  you  are  a  wood-carver,  if  you  are  a 
singer  wanting  a  voice  that  will  make  your  fortune 
because  it  was  trained  in  France,  if  you  are  a  baker, 
if  you  are  a  burglar,  if  you  are  a  silk  merchant,  if  you 
are  a  professor  from  Aberdeen  hunting  for  manuscripts 

49 


PARIS  VISTAS 

that  will  prove  your  thesis  concerning  Pelagius,  if  you 
are  an  apache,  if  you  are  an  English  nursemaid,— 
you  '11  never  be  lonely  in  Paris.  No  matter  how 
isolated  or  queer  or  misunderstood  you  were  where  you 
came  from,  in  Paris  you  '11  find  inspiration,  competi- 
tion, companionship,  opportunity  and  pals.  The 
papers  tell  us  every  week  that  the  birth  rate  is  going 
down.  But  the  population  of  Paris  is  increasing.  So 
in  peace,  in  war  and  in  peace  again,  there  was  one 
constant  quantity  underpinning  existence — Paris,  the 
centre  of  the  spider  web.  The  spider  that  lures  is 
liberty  to  work  out  one's  ideas  in  one's  own  way  in  a 
friendly  country.  It  is  a  wonder  the  men  who  make 
maps  in  France  can  draw  lines  latitudinally  and  longi- 
tudinally. What  difference  did  it  make  then  if  we 
had  only  two  hundred  and  fifty  francs'? 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    PENSION    IN    THE    RUE    MADAME 

WE  started  our  search  for  a  temporary  home  at 
the  Observatoire,  and  good  fortune  took  our 
footsteps  down  the  Rue  d'Assas  rather  than  down  the 
Boulevard  Saint-Michel.  Had  we  turned  to  the  right 
instead  of  to  the  left,  we  should  probably  have  found  a 
pension  that  satisfied  our  requirements  on  the  Rue  Gay- 
Lussac,  the  Rue  Claude  Bernard,  the  Rue  Soufflot,  or 
behind  the  Pantheon.  But  a  short  distance  down  the 
Rue  d'Assas,  we  turned  into  the  Rue  Madame,  which 
held  two  possibilities  on  our  list.  The  first  place  ad- 
vertised proved  to  be  a  private  apartment,  whose  mis- 
tress was  looking  for  boarders  for  one  room  who  would 
not  only  pay  her  rent  but  her  food  and  her  old  father's 
as  well.  We  got  out  quickly,  and  kept  our  hopes  up 
for  the  second  place.  It  was  a  small  private  hotel  just 
below  the  Rue  de  Vaugirard,  with  a  modest  sign: 
Pension  de  Famille. 

A  beaming  young  woman,  who  told  us  that  she  was 
Mademoiselle  Guyenot,  proprietaire  et  directrice  de  la 
maison,  answered  our  first  question  in  a  way  that  won 
our  hearts  forever.  "Do  I  mind  a  baby!"  she  ex- 
claimed. "I  love  them.  No  trouble  in  the  world. 

51 


PARIS  VISTAS 

Wish  the  bon  dieu  would  allow  me  to  have  one  myself. 
If  any  boarder  complains  about  babies  crying  in  my 
house,  I  ask  them  how  they  expect  the  world  to  keep 
on  going.  Parfait!  Bring  the  little  rabbit  right 
along.  Of  course  there  is  no  charge.  Is  it  I  who  will 
feed  her5?  Think  of  it,  then!"  And  Mademoiselle 
Guyenot  opened  wide  her  arms  and  lifted  them 
Heavenward.  Her  eyes  shone,  and  she  laughed. 

We  engaged  a  room  on  the  court,  two  flights  up,  for 
seventy  francs  a  week  tout  compris,  lodging,  food, 
boots,  wine.  Lights  would  not  amount  to  more  than  a 
franc  a  week.  We  could  give  what  we  wanted  for 
attendance.  The  arrangement  with  Marie  was  per- 
fect. She  would  stay  at  home  and  come  for  the  days 
we  wanted  her.  That  meant  only  her  noonday  meal 
on  our  pension  bill — one  franc-fifty. 

We  got  out  of  the  Boulevard  Diderot  hotel  none 
too  soon.  The  charges  were  fully  as  much  as  at  a 
first-class  hotel  (I  have  frequently  since  found  this  to 
be  the  case  in  trying  to  economize  in  travel)  and  made 
a  serious  dent  in  our  nest-egg.  When  we  reached  the 
-pension  with  our  baby  and  baggage,  we  felt  that  it  was 
only  the  square  thing  to  acquaint  the  new  friend  who 
loved  babies  with  our  financial  situation. 

"Oh!  la,  la,"  cried  Mademoiselle  Guyenot,  "you 
may  pay  me  when  you  like !" 

"You  must  understand,"  said  my  husband,  "that  we 
have  just  come  out  of  Turkey  and  have  very  little 

52 


THE  PENSION  IN  THE  RUE  MADAME 

money.     Of  course,  as  soon  as  we  get  settled,  things 
will  be  all  right  again." 

Mademoiselle  received  us  in  the  bureau  of  her  pen- 
sion with  open  arms  and  lightning  French.  I  could  not 
get  it  all,  but  we  knew  she  was  glad  to  see  us.  She 
turned  around  on  her  chair  and  faced  us  as  we  sat  on  an 
old  stuffed  sofa  surrounded  by  our  suitcases. 

"You  must  not  worry,"  she  exclaimed,  "you  must 
not  worry  du  tout,  du  tout,  du  tout,  du  tout.  ...  If 
you  don't  pay  me  I  '11  keep  the  baby,  pauvre  ckou." 

Mademoiselle's  voice  went  up  the  scale  and  down 
again,  dying  away  only  when  she  opened  her  mouth 
wider  to  laugh. 

Mademoiselle  ran  the  pension  single-handed  in  those 
days.  Now  she  is  Madame  and  the  mother  of  two 
little  girls.  Monsieur  is  a  mechanical  genius  and  has 
himself  installed  many  conveniences.  He  can  paper 
a  room,  rig  up  a  table  lamp  at  the  head  of  a  bed, 
carry  in  the  coal,  forage  for  provisions  with  a  hand-cart 
and  a  cheerful  jusqu'au  boutisme  that  stops  at  nothing. 
He  is  also  able  to  make  a  quick  change  in  clothes 
and  bobs  up  serenely  within  fifteen  minutes  after  un- 
loading the  potatoes,  quite  ready  to  make  you  a  cock- 
tail. 

Mademoiselle  handled  her  clients  with  cheerful  firm- 
ness. She  used  to  marshal  the  forces  of  her  house  with 
a  strong  and  capable  hand.  You  could  not  put  one 
over  on  her  then  any  more  than  you  can  now,  as  some 

53 


PARIS  VISTAS 

transients  discovered  to  their  confusion.  The  regulars 
knew  better  than  to  try.  On  the  other  hand  if  your 
case  was  good  and  your  complaint  justified,  she  de- 
fended you  with  energy.  Liberte,  egalite,  fraternite 
were  realities  in  the  Rue  Madame. 

The  clientele  was  French  for  the  most  part:  elderly 
people  who  had  got  tired  of  keeping  house.  Folks 
from  the  provinces  who  had  come  to  town  to  spend  the 
winter  after  Monsieur  retired  from  business.  Young 
people,  mostly  men,  some  of  them  long  haired 
who  were  studying  at  the  Sorbonne  or  elsewhere.  And 
a  sprinkling  of  transients  whose  chief  effect  upon  the 
regulars  was  allowing  them  to  shift  about  until  they 
had  possession  of  the  rooms  they  wanted  to  keep  at  a 
monthly  rate.  When  we  went  to  the  pension  we  were 
the  only  Americans.  We  paid  five  francs  a  day  for 
room  and  board  like  everybody  else  excepting  the  old 
lady  who  had  come  to  the  house  years  ago  when  the 
rate  was  four  francs  fifty.  German  Hausfraus  may  be 
marvels  in  management,  but  I  defy  any  lady  Boche  to 
beat  Mademoiselle's  efficiency.  She  got  all  the  work 
of  kitchen  and  dining-room  done,  and  well  done  too,  by 
Victorine  the  tireless,  Louis  the  juggler  and  FranQois 
the  obsequious.  Guillaume  and  Yvonne,  a  working 
menage,  looked  after  the  rooms  until  they  got  a  swell 
job  at  the  Ritz  Hotel,  where  tips  would  count.  The 
other  three  were  fixtures. 

In  spirit  the  Rue  Madame  pension  has  not  changed. 

54 


THE  PENSION  IN  THE  RUE  MADAME 

The  atmosphere  to-day  is  as  it  was  in  nineteen  hundred 
and  nine.  The  table  is  good,  plentiful,  appetizing — 
and,  oh,  what  a  variety  of  meats  and  vegetables !  The 
potatoes  are  never  served  in  the  same  way  twice  in  a 
week,  and  Madame  Primel,  as  Mademoiselle  is  now 
called,  cooks  as  many  different  plats  de  jour  as  her 
number  in  the  street,  which  is  fourty-four.  There  the 
reader  has  my  secret !  But  five  francs  a  day  no  longer 
holds.  In  nineteen  hundred  and  nineteen  five  francs 
will  barely  pay  for  a  single  meal.  Not  only  has  the 
price  of  food  more  than  doubled,  but  the  traveler  is 
beginning  to  demand  comforts  that  cost.  We  used  to 
have  buckets  of  coal  brought  up,  and  make  a  cheerful 
fire.  We  used  to  grope  in  the  dark  when  we  came 
home,  strike  a  match,  and  look  for  our  candle  on  the 
hall  table.  We  used  to  have  a  lamp — the  best  light 
in  the  world — in  our  room.  But  now  the  pension  in 
the  Rue  Madame  has  yielded  to  the  demands  of  a  dis- 
contented world.  Steam  heat,  electric  lights — these 
have  had  their  part  in  making  five  francs  a  day  dis- 
appear forever.  The  five  franc  pension  exists  only  in 
the  memory  of  Paris  lovers,  or  in  story  books  like  mine. 
At  our  table  were  Mrs.  Reilly,  a  sprightly  Irish 
woman  called  by  the  pensionnaires  Madame  Reely; 
Monsieur  Mazeron,  a  law  student  with  an  ascetic  blond 
face  and  hair  like  a  duckling;  an  elderly  couple  from 
Normandy  who  had  adopted  Madame  Reely,  swallowed 
her  at  one  gulp  of  perfection,  only  to  discover  after- 

55 


PARIS  VISTAS 

wards  that  they  did  not  understand  her;  a  Polish  doctor 
and  his  wife  from  Warsaw;  and  others.  Madame 
Reely  made  a  pretty  speech  the  first  night  at  dinner, 
proposing  that  our  table  volunteer  to  help  us  take  care 
of  the  baby. 

"To-morrow  is  the  Fete  Dieu,"  said  she.  "I  '11  go 
to  the  early  mass  so  that  I  can  come  back  and  stay  with 
the  baby  while  you  two  go  to  the  later  mass.  You  will 
see  the  priests  in  their  robes  of  ceremony,  the  Holy 
Relics,  and  a  thousand  children  in  the  procession.  It  is 
too  lovely, — all  those  little  things  with  their  baskets 
of  flowers,  throwing  petals  in  the  path  of  the  priests. 
Who  can  tell,"  she  went  on  in  a  whispered  aside  to  her 
neighbor,  "it  may  impress  them.  One  never  knows 
when  new  converts  are  to  be  added  to  the  blessed 
Church!" 

"And  I  shall  look  at  the  baby,"  said  the  Doctor  from 
Warsaw.  "Children  are  my  specialty.  That  is  why  I 
am  here,  observing  in  the  clinics  of  Paris,  you  see.  I 
shall  come  to  your  room  to-morrow  after  breakfast. 
Being  an  American  mother,  I  suppose  you  give  your 
baby  orange  juice1?" 

"Certainly  I  give  her  orange  juice,"  said  I;  "it  is 
good  for  her." 

"Au  contrairel  au  contraire!"  cried  the  Doctor, 
waving  his  hands.  The  Doctor  was  always  "au  con- 
traire" no  matter  what  was  said  and  who  said  it. 
Polish  character. 


THE  PENSION  IN  THE  RUE  MADAME 

In  a  corner  was  a  tiny  table  for  one.  It  was  for  the 
starboarder,  a  young  Roumanian,  who  wore  a  purple  tie 
held  together  by  a  large  amethyst  ring.  Possibly  he 
wore  it  because  he  believed  in  the  ancient  legend  about 
amethysts  being  good  to  prevent  intoxication.  When 
we  entered  upon  the  scene  he  was  still  in  high  favor. 
His  downfall  came  later  and  had  to  do  with  a  wide- 
awake concierge  and  a  luckless  kiss  at  the  front  door. 

The  food  we  had  was  the  kind  we  used  to  have  in 
Paris  when  many  visitors  came  here  with  no  better 
excuse  than  to  enjoy  the  cuisine.  Mademoiselle  gave 
us  two  meat  dishes  for  each  meal.  If  you  did  not  like 
calves'  liver,  Louis  would  do  a  trick  that  landed  a 
steaming  plate  of  crisp  fried  eggs  (fried  in  butter,  you 
remember)  before  you.  And  that  without  being  told. 
Behind  the  scenes  was  Victorine. 

Victorine  invited  me  into  her  kitchen  to  learn  how  to 
make  sauce  piquante. 

"Are  you  married,  Victorine  *?  "  I  queried. 

"My  cookstove  is  my  husband,"  she  laughed;  "his 
heart  is  good  and  warm  and  he  never  leaves  me." 

During  meals  Mademoiselle  was  to  be  found  in  the 
kitchen.  She  did  the  carving  herself  and  tasted  every- 
thing before  it  was  passed  through  a  window  to  Louis. 

There  was  no  felt  covering  under  the  table-cloth. 
The  serving  of  the  meal  competed  with  piping,  high- 
pitched,  excited  voices.  Perhaps  I  ought  n't  to  say 
excited,  but  the  Frenchman  in  his  most  ordinary  matter 

57 


PARIS  VISTAS 

of  fact  conversation  sounds  excited  to  the  Anglo- 
Saxon.  He  asks  you  to  pass  the  bread  in  the  same 
tone  you  would  use  in  announcing  an  event  of  moment. 
At  each  place  was  a  glass  knife-and-fork  rest.  In 
France,  unless  the  first  dish  happens  to  be  fish,  you 
keep  the  same  knife  and  fork.  This  is  the  custom  in 
the  best  of  homes.  We  are  prodigal  of  cutlery  where 
the  French  are  prodigal  of  plates.  The  same  knife  and 
fork  did  n't  matter,  because  the  food  was  so  good. 
Nor  does  it  matter  to-day,  because  now  there  is  only  one 
meat  dish.  Times  have  changed. 

If  fruit  or  pudding  ran  out,  Mademoiselle  opened  a 
section  of  the  wall,  finding  the  key  on  a  bunch  that  was 
suspended  from  her  belt  on  a  piece  of  faded  black  tape. 
From  the  cupboard  she  took  tiny  glasses  filled  with 
confiture  or  perhaps  a  paste  made  of  mashed  chestnuts 
and  flour  slightly  sweetened.  The  glasses,  to  the 
touch,  were  cylindrical,  but  when  you  had  broken  the 
paper  pasted  across  the  top  and  had  eaten  half  way 
down,  the  space  was  no  wider  than  the  fat  part  of  your 
tea  spoon.  If  your  glass  was  a  cylinder  outside,  on  the 
inside  it  was  an  inverted  cone. 

The  quantities  of  bread  consumed  in  that  house 
would  be  appalling  to  anybody  but  a  Frenchman.  A 
Turk  can  live  on  bread  and  olives.  But  a  Frenchman 
can  live  on  bread  alone.  If  he  had  to  choose  between 
bread  and  wine  he  would  forget  the  wine.  When  the 
basket  was  passed  around,  the  pensionnaires,  with  a  de- 

58 


THE  PENSION  IN  THE  RUE  MADAME 

lightful  absence  of  self-consciousness,  would  cast  their 
eye  over  it  in  order  to  select  the  biggest  piece.  There 
was  always  one  person  who  would  look  around  the  room 
furtively,  take  the  biggest  piece  on  the  plate,  slip  the 
second  biggest  piece  into  the  lap  under  the  serviette, 
and  then,  gazing  far  away  in  ostrich  fashion,  glide  the 
bread  into  pocket  or  reticule.  If  the  dessert  happened 
to  be  fruit,  an  orange  or  an  apple  would  follow  the 
bread  for  private  consumption  later  in  the  day.  Per- 
haps these  people  came  in  for  luncheon  only  and  the 
bread  and  fruit  was  devoured  at  twilight  at  some  little 
cafe  where  it  is  permitted  to  customers  to  bring  their 
own  supplies,  if  they  buy  a  drink.  This  stretching  of 
luncheon  procured  the  evening  meal.  If  necessity  is 
the  mother  of  invention,  the  students  of  Paris  are  neces- 
sity's grandmother. 

Louis,  the  arch-juggler,  was  forced  by  public  opinion 
to  alternate  day  by  day  his  point  of  departure  when 
passing  the  steaming  plat  du  jour.  Egalite,  you  re- 
member, is  one-third  of  French  philosophy.  It  would 
never  do  for  the  same  end  of  the  dining-room  to  enjoy 
for  two  days  running  the  little  privilege  of  having  the 
first  pick  at  the  best  piece  of  meat  in  the  plate. 

Franqois  helped  in  the  dining-room.  But  he  was 
everywhere  else  too.  He  was  useful  for  Louis  to  swear 
at  and  to  blame.  He  was  bell-hop,  scullery-boy, 
errand-man,  who  needed  all  of  his  amazing  reserves  of 
cheerfulness.  I  wondered  when  Francois  slept.  He 

59 


PARIS  VISTAS 

was  on  hand  with  his  grin  and  his  oui,  madame,  early  and 
late.  Once  when  we  slid  out  of  the  house  at  five  in 
the  morning  to  go  on  an  excursion,  we  found  him  in 
the  lower  hall  surrounded  by  the  boots  of  the  house. 
Back  of  his  ear  was  a  piece  of  chalk  used  for  marking 
the  number  of  the  room  on  the  soles  of  the  boots.  He 
was  polishing  away,  moving  his  arm  back  and  forth 
with  a  diminutive  imitation  of  the  swing  his  legs  had 
to  accomplish  when  his  brush-clad  feet  were  polishing 
the  waxed  floors.  As  a  concession  to  the  early  hour, 
he  was  whistling  softly  instead  of  singing.  The 
whistling  of  Frangois  fascinated  everyone  because  it 
came  through  a  tongue  folded  funnel-wise  and  placed 
in  the  aperture  where  a  front  tooth  was  missing.  And 
we  would  often  find  him  up  and  about  when  we  came 
home  late  at  night.  It  was  a  pleasant  surprise,  when, 
after  calling  out  your  name,  you  made  ready  to  walk 
back  to  the  candlestick  table,  hands  stretched  out  before 
you,  to  have  Frangois  suddenly  appear  with  a  light. 
He  would  hold  out  over  the  table  his  little  hand  lamp 
with  the  flourish  a  Gascon  alone  can  make.  You 
picked  out  your  candlestick  by  the  number  of  your 
room  cut  in  its  shining  surface.  The  number  had  an 
old-fashioned  swing  to  its  curve,  suggesting  that  the 
solid  bit  of  brass  might  have  been  dug  up  from  the 
garden  of  some  moss-grown  hostelry  after  a  passage  of 
the  Huns. 

Mademoiselle  Guyenot  insisted  that  the  flagged  pave- 

60 


THE  PENSION  IN  THE  RUE  MADAME 

ment  be  washed  every  day.  Francois  used  to  fill  with 
water  a  tin  can  in  the  bottom  of  which  he  had  punched 
half  a  dozen  holes.  He  swung  it  about  the  court  until 
figure  eight  shaped  sprinkle-tracks  lay  all  over  the 
twelve-by-twenty  garden.  Afterwards  he  would  take 
a  short-handled  broom,  bend  himself  over  like  a  hair- 
pin, and  sweep  up  the  flag-stones.  The  dirt  he 
accumulated  was  made  into  a  neat  newspaper  package 
and  set  aside  to  wait  until  early  to-morrow  morning 
when  it  was  put  out  on  the  street  in  the  garbage-pail. 
Francois'  thin  high  voice  sang  incessantly  and  sounded 
for  all  the  world  like  the  piping  of  a  Kurdish  shepherd 
above  the  timber  line  in  the  Taurus  Mountains.  In 
those  days  woe  betide  you  if  you  put  trash  or  garbage 
on  a  Paris  street  later  than  8  A.  M.  It  was  as  unseemly 
an  act  as  shaking  carpets  out  of  your  window  after  the 
regulation  hour.  Now,  even  if  you  are  a  late  and 
leisurely  bank  clerk  or  fashionable  milliner  and  you 
don't  have  to  show  up  at  work  before  10  o'clock,  you 
will  see  garbage-pails  along  curb-stones  and  likely  as 
not  get  a  dust  shower  furious  enough  to  make  you  wish 
you  had  n't  left  your  umbrella  at  home.  The  old  days 
— will  they  come  back"? 

When  the  band  plays  soft  Eliza-crossing-the-ice 
music,  my  mind  flies  to  several  Home-Sweet-Homes.  I 
think  of  Tarsus,  Constantinople,  Oxford  and  Princeton. 
But  there  is  no  twinge  of  homesickness.  Paris  and  my 
present  home  there  satisfy  every  want  and  longing. 

6l 


PARIS  VISTAS 

Among  the  homes  of  the  past,  however,  I  think  of  others 
in  Paris  as  well  as  of  those  of  other  places.  I  never 
forget  the  pension  in  the  Rue  Madame.  Thankfully 
it  is  still  a  reality.  During  the  past  decade  it  has 
housed  our  mothers  and  sisters  and  cousins  and  friends. 
We  have  gone  there  to  see  them.  And  we  go  there  to 
see  our  first  warm  friend  in  Paris  and  her  husband  and 
children.  From  time  to  time  we  have  a  meal  in  the  old 
dining-room.  We  hope  the  pension  will  not  disappear 
or  will  not  be  converted  into  too  grand  a  hotel.  For  us 
it  is  a  Paris  landmark. 


62 


CHAPTER  VI 

LARES  AND  PENATES  IN   THE   RUE   SERVANDONI 

WE  spent  the  first  anniversary  of  our  wedding  in 
Egypt.  A  week  later  we  arrived  in  Paris. 
For  prospective  residents  as  well  as  for  tourists,  June  is 
the  best  time  of  the  year  to  reach  Paris.  You  have 
good  weather  and  long  days,  both  essentials  of  success- 
ful home-hunting.  It  is  an  invariable  rule  in  Paris  to 
divide  the  year  in  quarters,  beginning  with  the  fifteenth 
of  January,  April,  July  and  October.  Whether  you 
are  looking  for  a  modest  logement  on  a  three  months' 
lease  or  a  grand  appartement-confort  moderne — on  a 
three  years'  lease,  the  dates  of  entry  are  the  same.  One 
rarely  breaks  in  between  terms.  •>  If  you  have  passed 
one  period,  you  must  wait  for  the  next  trimestre.  The 
person  who  is  leaving  the  apartment  you  rent  might  be 
perfectly  willing  to  accommodate  you,  but  he  has  to 
wait  to  get  into  his  new  place.  So  when  we  went  to 
the  pension,  we  had  before  us  the  best  home-hunting 
weeks  of  the  year,  with  the  expectation  of  being  able 
to  get  settled  somewhere  on  July  15th. 

At  the  pension,  our  room  faced  on  the  court,  and  the 
personnel,  from  Mademoiselle  Guyenot  down  to  Vic- 
torine  and  Francois,  assured  us  that  we  need  not  feel 
bound  to  stay  at  home  on  the  days  Marie  could  not 

63 


PARIS  VISTAS 

come  to  us.  Marie  for  years  had  been  sewing  four 
different  days  of  the  week  for  old  patrons,  and  we  did 
not  feel  certain  enough  of  our  own  plans  and  purse  to 
accept  the  responsibility  of  her  giving  up  a  sure  thing. 
"Go  out  all  you  want  to,"  urged  our  friends.  "You 
only  have  to  think  about  meal  times  for  the  baby. 
Someone  is  always  in  the  court  sewing  or  sorting  the 
laundry  or  preparing  vegetables.  Your  window  is 
open.  We  cannot  fail  to  hear  the  baby." 

But  a  chorus  of  bien  sur  and  parfaitement  and  soyez 
tranquille  did  not  reassure  what  was  as  new  born  as 
Christine  herself — the  maternal  instinct.  A  letter 
from  Herbert's  father  solved  the  problem.  He  in- 
closed the  money  for  a  baby  carriage.  We  carried 
Scrappie  down  the  Boulevard  Raspail  to  the  little 
square  in  front  of  the  Bon  Marche.  I  kept  her  on  a 
bench  while  Herbert  went  in  to  follow  my  directions 
as  well  as  he  could.  In  a  few  minutes  he  came  out  and 
said  he  would  rather  take  care  of  the  baby.  It  was  the 
first  time  I  had  seen  him  stumped.  So  I  had  the  joy 
I  had  hoped  would  be  mine  all  along  but  of  which  I 
did  not  want  to  deprive  my  husband,  seeing  that  we 
could  not  share  it.  The  reader  may  ask  why  we 
did  n't  take  the  baby  inside.  But  it  will  not  be  a  young 
mother  who  puts  that  question !  With  one's  firstborn, 
one  sees  contagion  stalking  in  every  place  where  crowds 
gather  indoors.1 

iThe  critic  would  have  me  insert  a  modification  here.    Why  con- 

64 


f 


The  Rue  de  Vaugirard  by  the  Luxembourg 


LARES  AND  PENATES  IN  THE  RUE  SERVANDONI 

We  did  not  intend  to  consider  a  home  that  was  not 
within  baby-carriage  distance  of  the  Rue  Madame.  In 
fact,  after  a  few  days  in  the  Luxembourg  Quarter,  we 
were  determined  to  live  as  near  the  Garden  as  possible. 
There  we  were  within  walking  distance  of  the  Biblio- 
theque  Nationale  and  the  Sorbonne  and  the  Ecole  Libre 
des  Sciences  Politiques.  Marie,  whom  the  fact  that  I 
was  my  Mother's  daughter  did  not  blind  to  the  extent 
of  the  Gibbons  family  resources,  urged  the  Bois  de 
Vincennes.  But  we  would  not  hear  of  it. 

It  is  strange  how  rich  and  poor  rub  elbows  with  each 
other  in  their  homes.  Paris  is  no  different  from  Amer- 
ican cities  in  this  respect.  The  kind  of  an  apartment 
we  wanted  would  cost  more  than  our  total  income,  as 
rents  around  the  Luxembourg  for  places  equipped  with 
electric  lights  and  bathtubs  and  central  heating  seemed 
to  be  as  expensive  as  around  the  Etoile.  Then  in  the 
same  street — sometimes  next  door — you  had  the  other 
extreme.  Our  finances  pointed  to  a  logement  in  a 
workingmen's  tenement.  Care  for  Scrappie's  health 
made  our  hearts  sink  every  time  we  were  shown  a  place 
that  seemed  within  our  means. 

Of  course  there  were  reasonable  places:  for  many 
others  who  demanded  cleanliness  had  no  more  money 

fine  the  fear  of  the  young  mother  to  indoors?  The  critic  insists  that 
I  used  to  be  afraid  of  taking  Scrappie  into  any  sort  of  a  crowd,  and 
that  my  supersensitive  ear  translated  the  bark  of  every  kiddie  with  a 
cold  into  whooping  cough,  while  I  saw  measles  in  mosquito  bites  on 
children's  faces. 


PARIS  VISTAS 

than  we.  But  the  Latin  and  Montparnasse  Quarters 
are  the  Mecca  of  slim-pursed  foreigners.  People 
foolish  enough  to  study  or  sing  or  paint  are  almost  in- 
variably poor.  Perhaps  that  is  the  reason !  We  had 
lots  of  exercise,  and  came  to  know  every  street  between 
the  Luxembourg  and  the  Seine.  Our  good  fortune 
arrived  unexpectedly  as  good  fortune  always  arrives  to 
those  who  will  not  be  side-tracked. 

Between  the  Rue  Vaugirard  and  Saint-Sulpice  are 
three  tiny  streets,  the  houses  on  the  opposite  sides  of 
which  almost  rub  cornices.  The  Rue  Ferou  is  opposite 
the  Musee  de  Luxembourg.  On  the  Rue  de  Vaugirard 
is  the  home  of  Massenet.  We  used  to  get  a  glimpse 
of  him  occasionally  on  his  terrasse — a  sort  of  roof- 
garden  with  a  vine-covered  lattice  on  top  of  the  low 
Rue  Ferou  wing  of  his  house.  The  other  two  streets 
paralleling  the  Rue  Ferou  from  the  Palais  du  Luxem- 
bourg to  the  Eglise  Saint-Suplice  are  the  Rue  Servan- 
doni  and  the  Rue  Garanciere. 

On  the  morning  of  the  Fourth  of  July  we  had  been 
diving  in  and  out  the  side  streets  of  the  Rue  Bonaparte 
and  the  Boulevard  Saint-Germain.  At  Scrappie's 
meal  time,  we  came  to  a  bench  in  the  Square  in  front  of 
Saint-Sulpice.  It  was  n't  a  bit  like  a  holiday.  It  was 
sultry  and  looked  like  rain.  We  were  wondering 
whether  we  had  better  not  hurry  back  to  the  pension 
for  fear  of  getting  the  baby  wet.  Just  then  people 

66 


LARES  AND  PENATES  IN  THE  RUE  SERVANDONI 

began  to  stop  and  look  up.  A  huge  balloon  was  above 
us.  And  it  carried  the  American  flag. 

"You  can't  beat  it,"  said  my  husband.  "And  we  are 
Americans.  Ergo,  you  can't  beat  us!" 

Did  the  sight  of  the  flag  do  the  trick?  Anyway,  it 
was  our  Japanese  "last  quarter  of  an  hour."  We  had 
come  down  through  the  Rue  Ferou.  We  went  back 
for  the  twentieth  time  in  twenty  days  through  the  Rue 
Servandoni.  Grey  houses,  topped  with  beehive  chim- 
neys, leaned  amicably  against  each  other  and  broke  the 
sky  line  as  well  as  the  municipal  rcglement  (made  long 
after  they  were)  concerning  the  distance  between  houses 
on  opposite  sides  of  streets.  Our  hearts  nearly  stopped 
beating  when  we  reached  Number  2 1 .  There  was  the 
magic  sign  (it  had  not  been  there  yesterday):  Ap- 
partement  a  Louer.  We  stopped  short  in  the  middle 
of  the  street.  The  sidewalks  are  not  wide  enough  to 
walk  on,  much  less  wheel  a  baby-carriage  along.  The 
grocer  on  the  ground  floor  saw  us  take  the  bait.  Out 
he  came.  Did  Monsieur  and  Madame  care  to  see  the 
appartement?  If  so,  he  was  concierge  as  well  as 
grocer.  He  would  show  us  the  place.  We  drew  the 
new  baby-carriage  into  the  dark  vestibule  and  went  up 
one  easy  flight  of  oak  balustraded  stairs.  The  grocer 
pulled  a  red-braided  bell  rope. 

A  man  in  shirt-sleeves  opened  the  door.  We  stepped 
into  a  tiny  dining-room  where  the  gas  was  lit  although 


PARIS  VISTAS 

it  was  noon.  The  wall-paper  was  yellow,  and  had 
sprawling  brown  figures  like  beetles.  A  dark  passage 
led  into  an  immense  room  with  a  generous  fireplace. 
Two  windows  opened  on  the  Rue  Servandoni.  It  was 
a  paper-hanger's  shop  with  ladders,  brushes,  buckets, 
rolls  and  rolls  of  paper  and  barrels  of  flour-paste 
around.  But  the  fellow  in  shirt-sleeves  assured  us  that 
when  his  fittings  were  out,  we  would  realize  what  a 
handsome  room  it  was.  "The  dining-room  is  dark," 
he  admitted,  "but  you  can't  match  this  room  for  light 
and  size  in  any  two-room  apartment  in  the  Quarter. 
I  know  them  all.  I  am  leaving  because  I  have  found  a 
ground  floor  shop.  I  '11  put  new  paper  on  here  very 
cheap." 

The  locataire  assumed  that  we  would  take  it.  So 
did  the  grocer-concierge.  Without  our  asking,  Mon- 
sieur Sempe  told  us  that  the  rent  would  be  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  francs  a  quarter.  We  did  not  have 
to  make  a  troublesome  lease,  just  a  little  agreement 
involving  three  months'  notification  on  either 
side. 

"Don't  forget,"  said  Sempe,  "that  this  old  house  sits 
between  two  modern  apartment  buildings.  The  walls 
are  warm.  Your  neighbors  have  steam  heat." 

"True,"  confirmed  the  paper-hanger.  But  he  did  not 
want  us  to  think  that  we  could  be  altogether  vicari- 
ously heated.  "Possibly  you  may  not  have  noticed," 
he  added,  "the  fireplace  in  the  dining-room.  It  heats 

68 


LARES  AND  PENATES  IN  THE  RUE  SERVANDONI 

almost  as  well  as  this  one.  I  '11  sell  you  my  grates. 
Boulets  make  the  best  fire." 

The  thrill  of  admiration  I  had  for  my  husband's 
magnificent  courage  when  he  signed  the  paper,  and  paid 
out  fifty  of  his  last  hundred  francs  "on  account"  is 
with  me  still. 

"We  are  sure  to  be  able  to  pay  our  rent,"  said  he, 
as  we  went  back  to  the  pension.  "We  could  n't  expect 
to  get  anything  for  less  than  ten  dollars  a  month.  The 
first  installment  of  the  fellowship  money  will  come  next 
week,  and  before  then  I  shall  certainly  get  something 
out  of  the  Herald.  It  will  have  to  be  enough  to  buy 
our  furniture." 

It  never  rains  but  it  pours.  At  the  pension  we  found 
a  letter  from  Mr.  James  Gordon  Bennett,  asking  Her- 
bert to  call  that  afternoon  at  three  o'clock  at  104 
Avenue  des  Champs-Elysees.  It  was  in  a  blue  envelope 
with  a  little  owl  embossed  on  the  flap,  and  was  signed 
"J.  G.  BENNETT"  in  blue  pencil  almost  the  color  of 
the  paper.  How  often  we  were  to  see  this  envelope 
and  this  signature,  and  what  luck  it  was  going  to  bring 
us !  We  thought  the  occasion  demanded  a  celebration. 
I  did  Scrappie  and  myself  up  in  our  best,  and  we  set 
forth  for  the  Champs-Elysees  in  an  open  fiacre — our 
first  ride  since  we  came  from  the  Boulevard  Diderot  to 
the  Rue  Madame.  We  waited  in  the  carriage  while 
Herbert  went  in  to  collect  his  money  for  the  Adana 
massacre  stories. 

69 


PARIS  VISTAS 

I  watched  the  door  of  the  big  apartment  house 
anxiously.  Our  furniture  and  the  rest  of  the  rent  for 
the  apartment  depended  upon  the  success  of  the  visit. 
Half  an  hour  later  Herbert's  face  told  me  that  all  was 
well.  He  had  sent  in  a  bill  of  four  hundred  dollars, 
and  fifty  dollars  expenses.  Mr.  Bennett,  he  told  me, 
began  by  scolding  him  for  not  making  it  in  francs,  and 
then  gave  him  a  check  for  twenty-five  hundred  francs, 
which  more  than  covered  what  Herbert  asked  for. 
The  Commodore  then  offered  Herbert  a  position  at  five 
hundred  francs  a  week,  and  was  surprised  when  it  was 
declined.  He  seemed  much  amused  when  Herbert  ex- 
plained that  he  had  come  to  Paris  to  study.  "But  you 
will  go  on  special  trips  in  an  emergency,"  said  Mr. 
Bennett.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  the  "emergencies" 
occurred  often  enough  to  tide  over  many  a  financial 
difficulty  during  years  that  followed. 

Provided  with  funds  after  passing  by  the  bank,  we 
took  Christine  to  Rumpelmayer's  to  tea,  and  then  drove 
back  the  Rue  Servandoni  to  pay  the  rest  of  our  rent. 
When  Monsieur  Sempe  gave  us  the  quittance,  he  ad- 
monished us  that  we  must  put  enough  furniture  in  the 
apartment  to  cover  six  months'  rent,  that  is  to  say,  we 
must  be  prepared  to  spend  at  least  sixty  dollars  to  set 
up  our  Lares  and  Penates.  Bubbling  over  with  good 
will,  Monsieur  Sempe  and  Madame  Sempe  (who  ap- 
peared on  the  scene  the  moment  it  was  a  question  of  a 
receipt  for  our  money)  gave  us  splendid  advice  about 

70 


LARES  AND  PENATES  IN  THE  RUE  SERVANDONI 

furniture-buying.  They  urged  us  to  go  to  the  Rue  de 
Rennes  to  some  good-sized  place  where  we  would  see 
second-hand  furniture  on  the  side-walk,  and  not  to  a 
small  brocanteur  or  dealer  in  antiques. 

The  amount  ticked  up  on  the  fiacre's  taximetre  was 
larger  than  we  had  dreamed  we  should  ever  spend  gad- 
ding about  Paris.  A  few  hours  before  it  would  have 
worried  us.  We  knew  this  could  not  keep  up — in  spite 
of  the  crisp  hundred  franc  notes.  Wealth  brings  a 
strange  sense  of  prudence.  We  drove  back  to  the 
pension,  dismissed  our  cocker,  and  pushed  the  baby- 
carriage  around  to  the  Rue  de  Rennes. 

MOBILIERS  COMPLETS  PAR  MILLIERS. 
"Household  furniture  sets  by  the  thousand."  That 
sign  read  promisingly.  We  entered,  and  found  a 
salesman — excuse  me,  the  proprietor  and  salesman  and 
cashier — who  took  in  my  clothes  and  hat,  and  then 
assured  us  that  he  did  not  mind  the  baby  crying  and 
could  fit  us  up  in  anything  from  Louis  Quatorze  to  the 
First  Empire,  real  or  (this  as  a  feeler)  imitation. 
Salle  a  manger  from  eight  hundred  francs  to  four  thou- 
sand; chambre  a  coucher  from  four  hundred  francs  to 
two  thousand  six  hundred;  salon  from  one  thousand 
francs  to  six  thousand;  splendid  garnitures  (which 
means  clocks  and  candlesticks  or  vases)  of  all  epochs 
for  our  cheminces;  hatracks  for  the  hall;  kitchen 
and  servants'  furniture — all,  everything,  anything  we 
needed. 

71 


PARIS  VISTAS 

I  knew  what  was  in  Herbert's  reproachful  look.  He 
always  did  ungraciously  blame  my  mother  for  the  fact 
that  he  had  so  frequently  to  counteract  my  trousseau  by 
embarrassed  words.  Mostly  I  let  him  stumble  along. 
But  as  this  was  his  day  and  as  I  had  n't  taken  off  the 
pretty  things  worn  in  honor  of  the  visit  to  the  Champs- 
Elysees,  which  was  a  break  on  my  part,  I  thought  it 
was  up  to  me  to  let  the  furniture  man  see  how  things 
stood. 

"We  have  a  little  apartment,"  I  said,  "bedroom  and 
living-room  combined,  a  very  small  dining-room  and  a 
kitchen.  I  expect  to  buy  the  baby's  crib  and  mattress 
aside,  but  the  rest  must  come  out  of  five  hundred 
francs — I  mean  all  of  it.  What  can  you  give  us  for 
that1?" 

I  often  think  the  French  are  essentially  poor  sales- 
men. They  do  not  know  how  to  show  their  goods  and 
they  are  too  indifferent  or  too  anxious.  But  the 
blessed  virtue  of  chivalry!  The  blessed  sense  of  pro- 
portion! The  blessed  instinct  of  moderation!  Our 
furniture  man  rose  to  the  occasion  with  a  grace  that 
made  me  want  to  hug  him.  He  kept  his  smile  and 
bow  and  changed  with  perfect  ease  from  Louis  and 
Napoleons  to  pitchpine.  It  would  require  figuring. 
But  it  could  be  done.  Yes,  of  course  it  could  be  done. 
Down  into  the  cellar  he  took  us,  and  in  half  an  hour 
he  had  arranged  to  give  us  all  we  needed  for  Francs 
532.70.  I  remember  those  figures.  And  he  agreed  to 

72 


LARES  AND  PENATES  IN  THE  RUE  SERVANDONI 

take  the  whole  lot  back  at  half-price  at  the  end  of  a 
year ! 

The  furniture  man  bore  a  striking  resemblance  to 
some  one  I  knew.  I  watched  him,  and  tried  to  place 
him,  as  he  made  out  our  bill  in  the  office — seven  square 
feet  of  glassed-in  suffocation  surrounded  by  armoires 
and  buffets.  Dust  clung  to  pages  and  blotters  and 
yellowing  files;  no  air  ever  came  in  here  to  blow  it 
away.  Where  had  I  seen  the  double  of  our  friend? 
Full  forehead,  closely-trimmed,  pointed  beard,  soft 
black  tie — and  the  eyes.  Where  had  I  seen  him  be- 
fore1? Writing  with  flourishes  in  purple  ink,  slightly 
bending  over  the  high  desk,  he  certainly  fitted  into  some 
memory  picture.  Then  it  came  to  me !  His  pen  ought 
to  be  a  quill.  It  was  William  Shakespeare. 

"Will-yum  Shakespeare!"  I  cried. 

My  husband  did  not  think  I  was  crazy.  For  he 
was  looking  at  the  furniture  man  when  I  made  my 
involuntary  exclamation. 

"What  does  Madame  say?  Is  she  not  content?" 
asked  William  Shakespeare.  Herbert's  hand  shot  out 
behind  his  back  and  grasped  mine.  "Shades  of  Strat- 
ford-on-Avon,"  he  murmured.  We  had  passed  a 
honeymoon  day  there  just  a  year  ago. 

It  was  hard  to  wait  until  July  15,  and  then  two  days 
longer  for  the  necessary  cleaning  by  a  femme  de  menage 
hired  for  us  by  the  Sempes.  July  lyth  was  the  magical 
day  of  our  first  housekeeping.  Never  before  had  we 

73 


PARIS  VISTAS 

been  together  in  a  place  where  everything  was  ours. 
Tables  and  chairs  and  beds  and  mattresses,  and  even 
the  piano  rented  at  ten  francs  a  month,  arrived  at 
Twenty-One  on  hand-carts  drawn  by  men  who  pulled 
only  a  little  harder  against  the  greasy  harness  that 
bound  them  to  their  job  than  did  the  dogs  under  the 
carts. 

Turkish  women  say  that  if  you  must  move,  abandon 
the  furniture  and  dishes;  they  can  be  had  anywhere. 
But  take  with  you  the  rugs  and  brass  that  you  love, 
and  you  have  your  home.  During  the  previous  winter 
in  Tarsus,  we  managed  to  buy  several  good  rugs,  a 
cradle-shawl,  some  candlesticks  and  Damascus  beaten- 
brass  trays  out  of  our  eight-hundred  dollar  salary. 
Don't  ask  me  now  how  we  did  it.  In  retrospect  it  is  a 
mystery.  But  we  had  these  things  in  two  big  boxes. 
They  were  as  butter  is  to  bread  with  our  pitch-pine. 
No,  I  'm  not  going  to  belittle  that  pitch-pine.  Years 
of  usage  had  modified  its  yellowness,  and  it  took  to  our 
rubbing  with  a  marvelous  furniture  polish.  The  floors 
could  have  been  better.  The  wood  was  hard,  however, 
and  we  got  some  sort  of  a  wax  shine  on  them.  The 
Shakespeare  furniture  plus  rugs  and  brasses — and 
candle  light — made  a  home  than  which  we  have  never 
since  had  better.  Never  mind  if  the  dining-room  was 
dark.  Never  mind  if  we  had  to  sleep  in  our  study,  and 
study  in  our  bedroom.  Never  mind  if  Scrappie's 
nursery  was  the  salon,  cabinet  de  travail  and  chambre  a 

74 


LARES  AND  PENATES  IN  THE  RUE  SERVANDONI 

coucher  combined.  Never  mind  if  we  were  compelled 
to  take  our  baths  at  the  foot  of  our  bed  in  a  tin  basin. 
It  was  Paris,  our  dream  city. 

We  were  fully  installed  by  six  o'clock.  The  femme 
de  menage  volunteered  to  stay  with  Christine  while  we 
went  out  for  supper.  Before  finding  a  restaurant,  we 
climbed  the  north  tower  of  Saint-Sulpice.  Between  us 
and  the  mass  of  verdure  that  marked  the  Jardin  du 
Luxembourg  was  our  home.  Up  there  near  heaven, 
with  the  city  at  our  feet,  we  danced  the  Merry  Widow 
Waltz,  for  sheer  joy  that  we  had  a  home  of  our  own 
in  Paris. 


CHAPTER  VII 

GOLD    IN    THE    CHIMNEY 

HOW  can  two  young  people,  with  a  baby  and 
three  hundred  dollars  in  cash,  able  to  count  upon 
a  one-year  fellowship  yielding  six  hundred  dollars,  live 
a  year  in  Paris?  The  answer  to  that  question  is  that  it 
cannot  be  done.  But  we  were  not  in  the  position  to 
answer  it  that  way.  We  were  in  Paris,  and  we  had 
the  baby.  Pride  and  ambition  are  factors  that  refuse 
to  be  overruled  by  the  remorseless  logic  of  figures.  If 
you  put  a  proposition  down  on  paper,  you  can  prove 
that  almost  anything  you  want  to  do  is  impossible. 
Successful  undertakings  are  never  the  result  of  logical 
thinking.  Herbert  and  I  would  not  have  had  a  wed- 
ding at  all  if  we  had  thought  the  matter  out  and  had 
considered  the  financial  side  of  life. 

Herbert  was  keeping,  however,  some  prejudices  and 
some  prudent  reserves,  remembering  his  father's  caution 
that  life  has  a  financial  basis.  Sitting  there  on  the 
packing-case  we  had  picked  out  for  a  coal-box  in  our 
study-bedroom,  he  hauled  out  an  account-book  and  was 
fussing  over  a  missing  franc.  Our  first  year  was  one 
of  constant  change  of  scene,  and  we  had  not  "kept 
house."  Now,  declared  my  husband,  was  the  time  to 


GOLD  IN  THE  CHIMNEY 

turn  over  a  new  leaf.  If  we  knew  where  and  how  our 
money  went,  financing  the  proposition  would  be  easier. 
With  tears  in  my  eyes  and  biting  a  pencil  with  trem- 
bling lips,  I  rebelled.  I  could  not  get  interested  in 
that  missing  franc. 

"I  want  you  to  realize  now,  once  for  all,  that  I  'm 
not  going  to  keep  this  old  cash  account.  I  don't  believe 
in  worrying  about  money.  I  'm  not  going  to  worry 
about  money  and  neither  are  you.  There  are  only 
three  financial  questions:  (l)  how  much  money  is 
there?  (2)  how  long  is  it  going  to  last?  (3)  what  are 
we  going  to  do  when  it 's  all  gone*?  Two  follows  one, 
and  three  follows  two — one,  two,  three — just  like 
that!" 

I  was  laughing  now,  and  raised  three  fingers  suc- 
cessively under  my  boss's  nose. 

"As  long  as  we  are  in  one,  we  are  not  in  two;  and 
when  we  are  in  two,  we  have  not  reached  three.  Let 
us  wait  for  three  until  we  are  in  three,  or  at  least  until 
we  know  we  are  about  to  leave  two." 

After  paying  a  quarter's  rent,  the  bill  for  the  furni- 
ture and  cleaning  up  sundry  little  expenses,  we  had 
left  fifteen  hundred  francs  of  the  Gordon  Bennett 
capital.  A  thousand  francs  was  deposited  with  Mor- 
gan, Harjes  and  Company.  The  other  five  hundred, 
in  twenty-franc  gold-pieces,  the  bank  gave  us  in  a  shiny 
little  pink  pasteboard  box.  Our  chimney  had  a  big 
hole  in  the  plaster.  The  wall  paper  was  torn  but  in- 

77 


PARIS  VISTAS 

tact.     An  ideal  hiding-place.     I  put  the  box  in  the  hole 
and  smoothed  down  the  paper. 

"This  hole  is  our  bank,"  I  announced.  "We  shall 
keep  no  account,  and  you  and  I  will  take  the  gold  boys 
when  we  need  them." 

Herbert  saw  a  great  light.  From  that  moment  to 
this  day  we  have  been  free  from  a  useless  drudgery  and 
have  been  able  to  conserve  our  energy  for  our  work. 
Herbert  said,  "Agreed!  And  when  the  pile  gets  low, 
I  '11  be  like  the  little  boy  the  old  man  saw  digging." 

"What  was  the  little  boy  digging  for1?"  I  chuckled. 

"Ground-hogs,"  answered  my  husband.  "An  old 
man  came  along  and  told  him  he  would  never  catch  a 
gopher  like  that,  for  they  could  dig  quicker  than  folks. 
'Can't  get  him?'  said  the  boy.  'Got  to  get  him,  the 
family  's  out  of  meat.' ' 

Now  that  the  financial  credo  of  the  home-makers  in 
the  Rue  Servandoni  is  set  forth,  I  shall  not  have  to  talk 
any  more  about  how  we  got  our  money  and  how  much 
there  was  of  it.  But  I  had  to  take  my  readers  into  my 
confidence,  for  I  did  not  want  them  to  labor  under  the 
misapprehension  that  persisted  among  our  neighbors  of 
the  Rue  Servandoni  throughout  our  year  there.  They 
took  it  for  granted  that  les  petits  americains  were  living 
at  Twenty-One  because  that  sort  of  fun  appealed  to  us. 
We  were  just  queer.  Of  course  we  had  plenty  of 
money,  and  could  have  lived  at  Nineteen  or  Twenty- 
Three  if  we  had  wanted  to!  The  Parisian,  the 

78 


GOLD  IN  THE  CHIMNEY 

Frenchman,  the  European,  of  whatever  social  class, 
believes  that  America  is  El  Dorado  and  that  every 
American  is  able  to  draw  at  will  from  inexhaustible 
transatlantic  gold-mines.  During  the  war  the  Red 
Cross,  the  Y.M.C.A.,  and  the  officers  and  men  of  the 
A.E.F.  confirmed  and  strengthened  this  traditional  be- 
lief. I  do  not  blame  my  compatriots  for  what  is  a 
universal  attitude  among  us  towards  money.  On  the 
contrary,  my  long  years  of  residence  abroad  have  made 
me  feel  that  we  get  more  out  of  life  by  looking  upon 
money  as  our  servant  than  Europeans  do,  who  look 
upon  it  as  their  master. 

The  first  thing — the  practical  and  imperative  thing 
— when  you  set  up  a  home  in  Paris  is  to  make  friends 
with  the  concierge.  Without  his  approval  and  co- 
operation, your  money,  your  position,  your  brains  will 
not  help  you  in  making  living  conditions  easy.  The 
concierge  stands  between  you  and  servants,  trades- 
people, visitors.  You  are  at  his  mercy.  Traveling 
in  Russia,  they  used  to  say  to  us :  lose  your  pocket-book 
or  your  head,  but  hold  on  to  your  passport.  In  Paris, 
dismiss  your  prize  servant  or  fall  out  with  your  best 
friend,  but  hold  on  to  the  good-will  of  the  concierge. 

Our  first  skirmish  with  the  Sempes  was  an  easy  vic- 
tory. We  could  not  keep  the  baby-carriage  in  our 
apartment,  even  if  we  had  been  willing  to  haul  it  up 
and  down  a  flight  of  stairs.  Boldly  we  announced  that 
we  wanted  to  leave  it  in  the  lower  hall.  "Of  course," 

79 


PARIS  VISTAS 

agreed  Monsieur  Sempe.  "I  was  just  going  to  suggest 
that  and  to  tell  you  that  in  my  shop  I  carry  everything, 
fruits  and  vegetables  as  well  as  dry-groceries." 

We  took  the  hint,  and  seldom  went  farther  afield  to 
do  our  marketing.  Madame  Sempe  was  the  first  to 
call  us  les  petits  americains.  She  was  capable  and 
kindly,  and  our  friendship  became  firmly  rooted  when 
she  discovered  that  we  intended  to  patronize  her  shop. 
The  Sempe  commodities  were  good.  This  was  lucky 
in  more  ways  than  one.  For  the  mice  knew  it  too,  and 
never  came  upstairs  to  bother  us. 

Sempe  himself  was  a  genial  soul,  partly  because  he 
always  kept  a  bottle  uncorked.  Hard  work  and  tem- 
perament, he  explained,  made  him  require  a  stimulant. 
He  took  just  enough,  you  understand,  to  affect  his  dis- 
position pleasantly.  If  you  had  a  little  complaint  to 
make  or  a  favor  to  ask,  much  as  you  deplored  his  thirst, 
you  found  yourself  casting  an  eye  over  the  man  to  make 
sure  of  his  mood  before  you  spoke.  If  you  caught  him 
when  the  bottle  was  not  too  full  or  too  empty,  he  could 
fix  a  lock  or  put  a  new  mantle  on  the  dining-room  gas- 
jet  most  graciously. 

Our  friendship  became  undying  when  Monsieur 
found  out  that  we  were  the  solution  of  his  financial 
pinches.  He  came  up  one  night,  and,  hooking  his 
thumbs  in  his  purple  suspenders,  asked  for  a  loan  of 
"shong  shanquante  francs  shusqua  skeudz."  Jeudi 
never  came.  To  Sempe's  intense  relief,  we  agreed  to 

80 


GOLD  IN  THE  CHIMNEY 

take  out  the  debt  in  groceries.  This  was  the  beginning 
of  a  sort  of  gentlemen's  agreement.  A  paper,  thumb- 
tacked  to  a  shelf  in  the  shop,  kept  the  record  of  our 
transactions.  When  I  came  to  make  purchases  in  the 
morning  or  when  Herbert  dropped  in  of  an  evening  to 
buy  a  supplement  to  our  dinner  for  unexpected  guests 
or  our  own  good  appetites,  we  could  see  at  a  glance 
whether  to  pay  cash  for  what  we  bought  or  whether  we 
should  do  a  sum  in  subtraction.  It  was  generally  sub- 
traction, and  Sempe,  wagging  his  head,  would  say, 
"This  goes  well — soon  I  shall  be  square  with  you." 
But  the  satisfaction  of  being  square  with  the  world  was 
never  Sempe's  for  long.  The  arrival  of  a  barrel  of 
wine  or  a  load  of  potatoes  would  send  him  running  up 
the  stairs  for  the  money  to  help  finance  his  business.  In 
spite  of  our  slender  resources  we  did  not  feel  this  to  be 
a  hardship.  Not  infrequently  it  was  an  advantage. 
First  of  all  things  one  has  to  eat.  We  always  began  to 
get  our  money  back  immediately  in  the  necessities  of 
life.  Instead  of  having  our  money  out  in  an  uncer- 
tain loan  we  took  the  attitude  that  our  board  was  paid 
for  two  or  three  weeks  in  advance. 

In  another  connection,  we  had  the  benefit  of  the  ad- 
vantageous side  of  the  Golden  Rule. 

In  our  study  of  Turkish  history  we  had  constant  use 
of  Von  Hammer's  Histoire  de  VEmpire  Ottoman. 
This  meant  much  transcribing  by  long-hand  at  the 
Bibliotheque  Nationale  where  the  typewriter  could  not 

81 


PARIS  VISTAS 

be  used.  If  only  we  had  Von  Hammer  at  home !  But 
it  was  a  rare  book — eighteen  volumes  and  an  atlas — 
far  beyond  our  means.  One  day  we  were  browsing  at 
Welter's,  the  most  wonderful  bookshop  in  Paris,  on  the 
Rue  Bernard-Palissy  off  the  Rue  de  Rennes  near  Saint- 
Germain-des-Pres.  Monsieur  Welter,  who  took  pains 
to  become  acquainted  with  and  discover  the  specialty  of 
every  passing  client,  told  us  that  he  had  a  set  of  Von 
Hammer,  recently  purchased  at  a  London  auction.  He 
sent  a  boy  to  bring  it  out.  Oh  how  tempting  it  looked, 
beautifully  bound  in  calf !  We  handled  it  fondly,  but 
turned  regretfully  away  when  he  said  that  the  price 
was  two  hundred  francs. 

"Do  you  not  want  it*?"  asked  Monsieur  Welter,  as- 
tonished. "It  is  indispensable  for  your  work  and  you 
do  not  get  a  chance  often  to  purchase  a  set  of  Von 
Hammer.  Never  will  you  find  it  cheaper  than  this." 

"I  do  want  it,  and  it  is  n't  the  price.  I  '11  come 
back  later,  hoping  you  will  not  have  sold  it." 

We  each  had  a  volume  in  our  hands.  I  poked  my 
nose  between  the  pages  of  mine  to  sniff  the  delightful 
odor  to  be  found  only  in  old  books.  Monsieur  looked 
at  us,  smiled,  and  said,  "You  mean  that  you  have  n't 
the  money.  You  will  have  it  some  day.  No  hurry. 
Give  me  your  address  and  the  books  will  be  sent  around 
this  afternoon." 

The  delightful  relationship  thus  began  lasted  until 
August,  1914,  when  Welter  (who  never  became  natur- 

82 


GOLD  IN  THE  CHIMNEY 

alized  although  his  sons  were  in  the  French  army)  had 
to  flee  to  escape  internment.  His  business  was  seques- 
trated. German  though  he  was,  we  never  cease  to 
mourn  the  only  expert  bookman  in  Paris.  We  have 
tried  a  dozen  since,  some  of  them  charming  men,  but 
none  with  the  slightest  idea  of  how  to  sell  books.  Wel- 
ter had  book-buyers  all  over  the  world.  Whenever  he 
came  across  rare  books  in  your  line,  he  mailed  them  to 
you  with  the  bill.  If  you  did  not  want  them,  you  sent 
them  back.  Every  three  months,  a  statement  of  the 
quarter's  purchases  came,  and  you  sent  a  check  when 
you  had  the  money.  One's  attention  was  brought  to 
many  valuable  sources,  and  one  was  able  to  buy  books 
of  immense  value,  the  possibility  of  whose  acquisition 
one  had  never  dreamed  of. 

Monsieur  Welter  told  me  years  later,  when  I  re- 
called the  Von  Hammer  incident,  that  he  did  n't  lose 
five  hundred  francs  a  year  in  bad  bills.  "The  dealer  in 
old  books  who  does  not  give  all  the  credit  the  buyers 
need  is  crazy,"  he  said.  "What  man  interested  in  the 
things  I  deal  in  would  think  of  cheating  me?  Your 
husband  wanted  Von  Hammer.  I  saw  that.  Any 
man  who  wanted  Von  Hammer  would  pay  for  it  in 
time." 

We  had  never  had  a  French  book-seller  offer  us 
credit,  much  less  send  books  on  approval  when  we  had 
not  ordered  them. 

When  I  think  of  the  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  books 

83 


PARIS  VISTAS 

we  bought  from  Welter,  I  realize  one  of  the  secrets  of 
the  inferiority  of  the  French  to  the  Germans  in  business. 
The  French  cannot  bring  themselves  to  give  credit :  they 
have  an  innate  fear  of  being  cheated,  and  understand 
commercial  transactions  only  in  terms  of  cash.  For 
years  I  have  made  a  point  of  watching  French  shop- 
keepers. Invariably  they  arrange  that  the  money  is  in 
their  hands  before  they  give  you  your  package. 

The  other  night  I  went  to  the  Champs-Elysees  thea- 
tre to  see  a  show  given  by  American  soldiers  of  the  88th 
Division.  One  act  opens  with  Hiram  Scarum  bring- 
ing a  military  trunk  into  his  hotel.  Staggering  under 
the  weight,  Hiram  hobbles  across  the  stage,  plants  his 
trunk  on  the  floor,  and  sits  down  on  it  to  mop  his  brow. 
He  spies  a  paper  across  the  room,  and  investigates  to 
find  it  is  the  tag  belonging  to  the  trunk.  Pulling  him- 
self together,  Hiram  spits  on  his  hands,  wearily  shoul- 
ders the  burden  again,  and  carries  it  across  the  room 
where  he  ties  the  tag  to  the  handle  of  the  trunk.  Then 
he  picks  up  the  trunk  and  carries  it  back  where  he  had 
first  put  it  down.  Hiram  is  like  French  commerce. 
The  Frenchman,  with  a  sense  of  self-congratulation  on 
his  own  industry,  carries  the  trunk  to  the  tag.  He  is 
surprised  to  discover  that  while  he  has  been  carrying  the 
trunk  to  the  tag,  his  German  competitor  has  carried  a 
great  many  tags  and  has  tied  them  to  a  great  many 
trunks.  We  hear  much  in  these  days  about  the  war 
after  the  war.  We  are  told  by  Paris  newspapers  how 

84 


GOLD  IN  THE  CHIMNEY 

the  French  business  men  are  going  to  capture  trade  from 
Germany.  How  can  the  French  win  in  the  commercial 
game?  I 'm  sure  I  don't  know.  One  is  concerned  lest 
the  inability  to  take  the  large  view  end  in  disappoint- 
ment and  disaster  for  the  Frenchmen  we  love.  We  are 
just  as  sure  that  our  French  friends  will  continue  to 
carry  the  trunk  to  the  tag  as  we  are  that  they  ought  to 
get  a  hustle  on,  give  up  their  old  ways,  and  win  the 
game. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

AT    THE    BIBLIOTHEQUE    NATIONALS 

THERE  are  many  libraries  in  Paris.  Some  of 
them  are  so  famous  that  I  ought  to  hesitate  to  call 
the  Bibliotheque  Nationale  simply  "the  library."  But 
I  do  call  it  that,  not  because  it  is  the  largest  in  the  world 
(a  fact  that  calls  forth  instinctively  admiration  and  re- 
spect from  Americans),  but  because  we  love  the  Bibli- 
otheque from  long  and  habitual  association.  It  is  a 
part  of  our  life  like  our  home. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  fellowship  year,  Herbert 
came  to  realize  that  books  could  do  more  for  him  than 
lecturers.  A  magnetic  and  enthusiastic  lecturer  com- 
municates his  inspiration:  but  most  professors  are  de- 
cidedly non-conductors.  And  then,  with  rare  excep- 
tions, university  professors  are  not  sources  themselves. 
What  they  do  is  to  stand  between  you  and  the  sources. 
When  they  have  something  original  and  suggestive  to 
say,  why  not  let  them  speak  to  you  from  the  covers  of  a 
book*?  If  a  book  does  not  hold  you,  you  can  throw  it 
aside  and  take  up  another :  the  lecturer  has  you  fast  for 
an  hour,  and  you  often  suffer  because  his  baby  did  not 
sleep  well  the  night  before.  But  when  the  professor 
speaks  from  the  printed  page,  he  has  had  a  chance  to 

86 


AT  THE  BIBLIOTHEQUE  NATIONALE 

eliminate  in  his  final  revision  whatever  effects  of  in- 
somnia there  may  have  been  in  the  first  draft.  If  he 
has  n't  done  so,  you  do  not  need  to  read  him. 

When  students  become  full  fledged  post-graduates, 
they  are  at  the  parting  of  the  ways.  Either  they  go  di- 
rectly to  the  sources,  form  independent  judgments,  and 
produce  original  work  as  a  result  of  constructive  think- 
ing, or  they  continue  to  remain  in  intellectual  depend- 
ence upon  their  teachers.  The  latter  alternative  is  the 
more  pleasant  course.  It  requires  less  effort,  and  does 
not  make  one  restless  and  unhappy.  The  pleasant 
days  of  taking  in  are  prolonged  and  the  agonizing  days 
of  giving  out  are  postponed.  But  if  a  youngster  is 
face  to  face  with  books  all  day  long  every  day,  he  either 
stops  studying  or  commences  to  produce  for  himself. 
Then,  too,  he  is  constantly  under  the  salutory  influence 
of  being  confronted  with  his  own  appalling  ignorance. 
Whatever  effort  he  makes,  the  volumes  he  summons 
from  the  shelves  to  his  desk  keep  reminding  him  that 
others  have  given  years  to  what  he  hopes  to  compass  in 
days.  The  Bibliotheque  teaches  two  lessons,  and 
teaches  them  with  every  tick  of  the  clock  from  nine 
a.  m.  to  four  p.  m. — humility  and  industry. 

There  was,  of  course,  much  to  be  learned  at  the  Sor- 
bonne.  But  my  husband  had  already  passed  through 
three  years  of  post-graduate  work,  and  was  tired  of 
chasing  around  from  one  lecture  to  another.  There 
were  hours  between  courses  that  could  not  be  utilized, 

8? 


PARIS  VISTAS 

and  the  habit  of  loafing  is  the  easiest  formed  in  the 
world.  It  was  because  we  were  jealous  of  every  hour 
in  the  Golden  Year  that  Herbert  and  I  first  turned  from 
the  Sorbonne  to  the  Bibliotheque.  Later  we  came  to 
realize  that  the  only  thing  in  common  between  Salles 
de  Conferences  of  the  Sorbonne  and  the  Salle  de  Lec- 
ture of  the  Bibliotheque  was  the  lack  of  fresh  air — the 
universal  and  unavoidable  torture  of  indoors  every- 
where in  France. 

Nine  to  four,  five  days  in  the  week,  Herbert  lived  in 
the  Bibliotheque,  and  I  went  there  mornings — when 
Scrappie  was  not  on  my  conscience !  One  did  not  have 
to  go  out  to  lunch,  as  the  fare  of  the  buvette  was  quite 
acceptable  to  those  interested  in  books  and  manuscripts. 
The  old  law  of  the  time  of  Louis  XIV  holds  good  in 
this  day.  No  light  but  that  of  heaven  has  ever  been 
introduced  into  the  Bibliotheque.  After  gas  was  dis- 
covered, the  law  was  not  changed.  Even  when  elec- 
tricity came,  presenting  an  infinitesimal  risk  of  fire,  the 
Government  refused  to  have  the  vast  building  wired. 
The  prohibition  of  lights  extends,  of  course,  to  smok- 
ing. You  cannot  strike  a  match  in  the  sacred  precincts. 
So,  after  lunch  we  used  to  go  across  the  street  and  sit 
for  half  an  hour  in  the  Square  Louvois. 

Do  you  know  the  Square  Louvois*?  I  '11  wager  you 
do  not.  For  when  one  passes  afoot  up  the  Rue  Riche- 
lieu, he  is  generally  in  a  hurry  to  get  to  the  Bourse  or 
the  Grands  Boulevards.  If  you  go  on  the  Clichy- 


Chateau  de  la  Reine  Blanche:  Rue  des  Gobelins 


AT  THE  BIBLIOTHEQUE  NATIONALE 

Odeon  bus,  you  whizz  by  one  of  the  most  delightful 
little  green  spots  in  the  city  of  green  spots  without  no- 
ticing it.  The  Square  Louvois  has  on  the  side  opposite 
the  Bibliotheque  Nationale  a  good-sized  hotel,  which 
was  named  after  the  square.  The  boundary  streets 
on  the  north  and  south  are  lined  with  modest  restaur- 
ants and  coffee  bars,  within  the  purse  of  petits  commis 
and  midinettes.  In  Europe  there  is  not  the  hurry  over 
the  mid-day  meal  that  seems  universal  in  America. 
Dyspepsia  is  unknown.  The  humblest  employee  or 
laborer  has  from  one  hour  and  a  half  to  two  hours  off  at 
noon.  There  is  competition  for  benches  and  chairs  in 
the  Square  Louvois  between  twelve-thirty  and  two. 
Mothers  who  are  their  own  nursemaids  have  to  resist 
the  temporary  encroachment  of  the  Quarter's  business 
world.  We  from  the  Bibliotheque  make  an  addi- 
tional demand.  We  must  have  our  smoke  and  fresh 
air.  And  we  never  tire  of  the  noble  monument  to  the 
rivers  of  France  that  is  the  fountain  in  the  center  of  the 
Square. 

"Funny,  is  n't  it,"  said  I,  "how  things  turn  out  to  be 
different  from  what  you  expected — your  thesis  for  in- 
stance. Gallicanism  is  simply  a  closed  door  for  the 
present." 

"I  tackled  too  big  a  subject,"  admitted  Herbert. 

We  were  smoking  in  the  Square  after  lunching  in  the 
buffet  of  the  Bibliotheque  Nationale  with  the  Scholar 
from  Oxford. 

89 


PARIS  VISTAS 

"I  '11  wager,"  said  Herbert,  "that  those  greasy  fel- 
lows in  the  salle  de  travail  discovered  long  ago  what  I 
have  just  learned.  You  start  with  a  general  subject 
and  a  century.  You  narrow  down  until  you  have  a 
phase  and  a  decade.  If  I  ever  do  Gallicanism,  it  '11  be 
limited  to  the  influence  of  the  conversion  of  Henry  of 
Navarre  upon  the  movement.  I  could  work  till  my 
hair  was  grey  developing  that.  But  I  should  be  nar- 
row-minded and  dry  as  bones  when  I  finished." 

•"Ah!  You  must  not  quarrel  with  the  greasy  fel- 
lows," put  in  the  Scholar  from  Oxford.  "That  is  re- 
search. They  are  not  narrow:  they  are  specialists." 
The  Scholar  is  a  canny  Scotchman  who  gives  his  r's 
their  full  value,  and  then  some. 

Allowing  the  letter  r  to  be  heard  for  sure  is  another 
point  of  contact  and  sympathy  between  Scott  and 
Frank.  Just  as  the  cooler  Teutonic  temperament  seeks 
the  sun,  and  has  been  seeking  the  sun  right  down 
through  history,  in  trying  to  reach  the  Mediterranean, 
the  cooler  Scotch  temperament  seeks  the  sun  where  it  is 
nearest  to  be  found — in  France.  It  is  the  attraction 
of  opposites. 

"You  Americans,"  said  the  Scholar,  "with  your 
Rocky  Mountains  and  your  Niagaras  naturally  ap- 
proach research  from  the  general  to  the  particular.  It 
is  far  easier  for  men  born  in  an  older  civilization  to 
begin  with  a  specialist's  point  of  view." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  said  Herbert,  "I  had  to  work  that 

90 


AT  THE  BIBLIOTHEQUE  NATIONALS 

out  and  I  had  to  change  my  whole  subject,  too.  I  wob- 
bled from  Gallicanism  to  Ottoman  history." 

"That 's  no  sin,"  declared  Alick.  "A  man  engrossed 
in  research  is  human.  Going  to  Turkey  was  bound  to 
influence  your  thinking.  The  traditions  of  France  still 
hold  you,  but  the  memory  of  Turkey  is  strong  enough 
to  change  the  trend  of  your  work.  Go  on  with  your 
origins  of  the  Ottoman  Empire  and  be  thankful  you 
have  discovered  a  line  off  the  beaten  track." 

"Yes,"  I  cried,  "and  for  goodness'  sake  stick  to  con- 
structive ideas.  You  research-fiends  waste  too  much 
time  trying  to  prove  that  the  other  fellow  is  wrong. 
Instead  of  remaining  scientists  you  get  to  be  quibblers. 
But  I  must  leave  you  now.  I  cannot  put  my  whole 
day  into  the  Bibliotheque.  I  have  to  mix  up  tea-ket- 
tles and  dusting  with  pamphlets  and  cards  for  the  file." 

As  Herbert  and  the  Scholar  from  Oxford  passed  by 
the  solemn  guard  at  the  door  of  the  salle  de  travail,  I 
lingered  in  the  lobby  musing  about  what  we  had  been 
saying.  I  leaned  for  a  minute  against  the  pedestal  of 
the  Sevres  vase  and  watched  Herbert  and  Alick  take 
their  places  side  by  side  at  the  old  inked  desks.  I 
looked  through  the  great  polished  plate  glass  that  makes 
the  salle  de  travail  and  the  travailleurs  seem  like  a  pic- 
ture in  its  frame.  I  knew  from  experience  that  once 
the  two  men  had  got  their  noses  in  their  books  they 
would  not  look  up.  There  was  no  use  in  waiting  for  a 
smile. 

91 


PARIS  VISTAS 

"Boc  ou  demi?"  asked  the  waiter. 

Herbert  and  I  and  the  Scholar  from  Oxford  were 
lunching  together  in  the  Quarter.  The  Bibliotheque 
was  closed  for  cleaning,  so  it  was  an  off  day. 

Herbert  and  the  Scholar  asked  for  bocs,  and  I  think- 
ing to  be  modest  chose  a  demi.  My  eyes  nearly 
dropped  out  of  my  head  when  the  men  got  glasses  of 
beer  and  before  me  stood  a  formidable  mug  that  held 
a  pint.  Emilie  told  me  afterwards  that  if  I  wanted 
that  much  beer  again  the  waiter  would  understand  bet- 
ter if  I  ordered  "un  serieux." 

The  Scholar  from  Oxford  had  the  habit  of  living  in 
our  apartment  when  he  came  to  Paris.  Memories  of 
hospitality  on  the  part  of  himself  and  his  wife  when 
we  were  on  our  honeymoon  in  Oxford  were  fresh,  and 
when  the  time  came  for  the  Scholar's  next  look  at  man- 
uscripts in  the  Bibliotheque  Nationale,  there  was  no 
question  in  our  mind — nor  in  his,  for  that  matter — as 
to  where  he  should  stay.  We  set  up  a  folding-bed  in 
the  dining-room  and  tucked  him  in.  No  matter  if  we 
did  not  come  back  to  the  Rue  Servandoni  at  meal  time. 
If  we  did  not  want  to  bother  getting  up  a  meal,  we  put 
the  apartment  key  into  our  pocket  and  sallied  forth  on 
what  we  called  a  baby-carriage  promenade.  There  was 
always  some  little  place  where  we  could  eat  when  we 
got  hungry.  Once  we  dined  in  a  cremerie  chaude  for 
no  better  reason  than  the  attraction  of  a  diverting  sign 
on  the  window — Five  o'clock  a  toute  heure. 

Q2 


AT  THE  BIBLIOTHEQUE  NATIONALE 

To-day  we  had  decided  against  Brogart's,  our  usual 
haunt,  on  the  rue  de  Rivoli.  At  Brogart's  you  could 
lunch  for  Fr.  1.25  with  the  plat  du  jour  and  a  satis- 
fying range  of  choice  in  the  fixings  that  went  with  it. 
It  was  1.20  if  you  invested  in  tickets.  Then  you  were 
given  a  napkin-ring  to  mark  your  serviette,  and  a  num- 
bered hole  in  the  open-face  cupboard  screwed  to  the 
wall  beside  the  high  desk  where  Madame  sat  while  she 
raked  in  the  money  and  kept  a  sharp  eye  on  her  clients. 
There  was  a  division  of  opinion  between  Mother  and 
me  during  a  flying  visit  she  made  us  just  before  Christ- 
mas. We  took  her  to  Brogart's.  She  saw  a  fellow, 
some  kind  of  a  wop  with  a  greasy  face  and  long  hair, 
pick  his  teeth  with  a  fork.  She  never  went  back  to  Bro- 
gart's again.  They  don't  do  that  in  Philadelphia.  At 
least  if  they  do,  Mother  had  never  happened  to  see 
them.  Herbert  and  Alick  and  I  were  less  difficult  to 
please.  To-day  it  was  only  because  we  had  wandered 
far  afield  that  Brogart's  did  not  see  us.  We  had  found 
a  table  that  pleased  us  in  a  restaurant  that  bore  the 
sign  "Au  rendez-vous  des  cochers."  We  were  not  look- 
ing for  a  novel  experience.  We  were  not  tourists,  you 
understand.  It  was  on  account  of  the  budget. 

Everybody  knows  that  the  cochers  of  Paris  are  no 
fools.  They  can  drive  a  horse,  but  they  can  drive  a 
bargain  too  and  afterwards  settle  down  on  their  high 
box  and  fling  you  shrewd  observations  about  art  or  pol- 
itics or  what  not.  But  there  is  more  to  it  than  that. 

93 


PARIS  VISTAS 

When  you  have  lived  a  while  in  the  Latin  quarter  you 
know  who  are  the  expert  judges  of  cooking.  In  the 
old  days,  the  meal  you  could  buy  in  a  tiny  dark  rendez- 
vous des  cockers  was  as  tasty  as  anything  you  could  en- 
joy on  a  Grand  Boulevard  at  ten  times  the  price. 
Minor  details  like  a  table-cloth  and  clean  forks  and 
knives  with  each  new  plate  are  not  missed  when  the 
gigot  is  done  to  a  turn  and  the  sauce  piquant e  is  just 
right.  The  rendez-vous  des  cockers  restaurant  has  one 
distinct  advantage  over  the  swell  place  on  the  Boule- 
vards. If  you  are  in  a  hurry  to  go  to  the  Concert  Rouge 
and  have  had  no  dinner,  you  can  stop  for  a  second  at  a 
cab  driver's  restaurant  while  you  buy  a  portion  of 
f rites.  The  luscious  golden  potatoes,  sprinkled  with 
salt,  are  wrapped  in  a  paper,  and  you  consume  them  as 
you  walk  up  the  Rue  de  Tournon.  They  don't  mind 
babies  there.  Scrappie  was  asleep  in  her  carriage. 
Monsier  le  Patron  came  out  and  rolled  the  carriage  ever 
so  gently  under  the  awning  beside  the  glass  screen  by 
the  restaurant  door.  He  beamed  at  us  benevolently, 
then  stepped  over  to  explain  that  he  was  a  pere  de  fa- 
mille  and  that  courants  d'air  inflame  babies'  eyes. 

The  Scholar  from  Oxford  is  a  Scotchman  with  the 
Scotch  affection  for  France.  Before  the  war  he  came 
to  France  and  Italy  every  year  to  make  enigmatical 
notes  in  his  own  handwriting  reduced  to  cramped  pro- 
portions. The  notes  were  placed  within  columns  that 
were  inked  out  years  ago  when  he  began  the  monu- 

94 


AT  THE  BIBLIOTHEQUE  NATIONALE 

mental  work.  The  columns  are  drawn  across  the  short 
dimension  of  the  paper,  so  that  you  have  to  turn  the 
thing  sidewise  to  read  it. 

There  is  a  variety  of  ink.  The  row  of  notes  at  the 
top  is  all  in  the  same  color.  Three  quarters  of  an  inch 
in  black  mark  the  first  year's  hours  spent  in  the  Bibli- 
otheque.  Run  your  eye  down  a  space  the  width  of 
your  thumb  and  the  ink  changes.  Count  how  many  ink 
colors  you  see,  and  you  '11  know  how  many  times  the 
Scholar  from  Oxford  has  come  abroad  on  his  grant. 
He  carries  his  papers  in  a  shiny  black  oil  cloth  serviette. 
He  was  modestly  imperturbable  when  with  my  usual 
vehemence  I  gave  him  a  good  scolding  because  he  con- 
fessed he  had  no  copy  of  the  precious  sheets. 

"So  worked  the  old  monks  in  the  days  of  the  Refor- 
mation," said  I,  "when  a  fellow  spent  his  life  time  labo- 
riously copying  the  Bible  with  his  own  hand." 

"Ah,"  mused  the  Scotchman  with  his  eyes  far  away, 
"they  were  great  scholars,  the  monks." 

"But  it  was  slow,"  I  protested,  "often  a  man  did  not 
live  long  enough  to  illuminate  the  device  at  the  end 
of  his  chapter.  Only  a  great  enthusiasm  carried  his 
successors  to  the  end." 

"Without  them,  think  what  we  should  have  lost!" 

"But  they  worked  like  that,  you  stubborn  one,  be- 
cause there  were  no  typewriters  or  secretaries.  You 
cannot  persuade  me,  Alick,  that  there  is  any  extra  virtue 
in  using  their  methods  today.  You  should  adopt  mod- 

95 


PARIS  VISTAS 

crn  methods  so  that  you  could  accomplish  more.  You 
don't  seem  to  realize  that  thirty  years  from  now  the 
world  will  call  you  what  you  are,  Britain's  greatest 
Latin  scholar." 

Unconvinced  that  mediaeval  methods  belong  to  me- 
diaeval times,  the  Scholar  from  Oxford  lit  another  cig- 
arette. He  still  persists  in  carrying  around  Europe,  in 
spite  of  wars,  his  priceless  record  of  years  of  labor. 
But  he  has  since  become  Professor  of  Humanity  at  a 
great  University.  The  chair  that  he  holds  dates  back 
to  the  day  of  the  methods  to  which  he  remains  faithful. 

Home  again,  I  was  making  the  coffee.  But  I  was 
not  out  of  the  conversation.  Our  kitchenette  was  six 
feet  from  the  dining-room  table.  Herbert  started  to 
light  his  cigar. 

"Ah,  my  lad,"  said  the  Scholar  from  Oxford,  stay- 
ing Herbert's  hand,  "you  haven't  asked  the  lady's  per- 
mission !" 

"I  guess  I  can  smoke  in  my  dining-room,"  answered 
Herbert. 

"You  have  to  ask  my  permission  then,"  laughed 
Alick,  "before  you  smoke  in  my  bedroom." 

Thank  heaven,  the  Bibliotheque  Nationale  does  not 
make  my  husband  and  my  guest  stupid.  If  I  could  not 
look  forward  to  jolly  evenings,  I  should  make  war  upon 
research  work,  much  as  I  like  Bibliotheque  Nationale. 


CHAPTER  IX 

EMILIE    IN    MONOLOGUE 

CARROTS  cost  money !" 
"Yes,  Emilie?" 

"I  had  to  throw  several  sous'  worth  at  your  window 
before  you  got  awake  this  morning,  and  when  they 
rolled  back  some  of  them  fell  in  the  gutter.  Old  Sempe 
saw  me  take  them,  and  I  'm  sure  he  '11  ask  you  to  pay 
for  them,"  said  Emilie,  nodding  her  round  head  with 
its  well-oiled  straight  black  hair.  Emilie  was  no  more 
gifted  hirsutely  than  in  other  feminine  adornments. 
Since  the  day  we  found  her  cleaning  our  apartment,  at 
the  request  of  the  Sempes,  I  had  been  studying  her  care- 
fully to  decide  whether  new  clothes  and  soap  would 
help  her  appearance.  Clean  and  togged  out  in  some  of 
my  things,  she  was  not  radically  changed.  But  her 
heart  of  gold  shone  in  her  eyes,  and  I  was  not  long  in 
learning  to  love  her. 

"You  never  hear  that  bell,"  continued  Emilie. 
"What  a  conscience  you  must  have  to  sleep  that  way. 
The  carrots  are  cheaper  than  paying  me  from  eight 
o'clock  when  you  sleep  on." 

"Never  mind  about  the  carrots,"  I  laughed.     "We 

97 


PARIS  VISTAS 

need  you  for  an  alarm  clock,  and  we  did  not  wake  up 
until  one  fell  on  the  bed." 

Emilie  was  my  first  servant,  and  I  did  not  have  her 
all  the  time.  All  my  life  I  had  been  demanding  things 
from  servants,  but  I  had  never  bossed  one  in  her  house- 
work. I  dreaded  tackling  the  problem.  Emilie  was 
the  easy  solution.  The  femme  de  menage  system  is 
one  of  the  advantages  of  life  in  Paris.  You  do  not 
have  to  house  your  servant,  and  she  is  not  in  the  way  in 
a  small  apartment  when  you  do  not  want  her  there. 
You  can  have  as  much  or  as  little  of  the  femme  de 
menage  as  you  like,  or  (as  was  more  often  the  case  in 
my  first  year  of  Paris  housekeeping)  as  you  can  afford 
to  pay  for.  I  put  Emilie  out  of  the  house  when  the 
clock  showed  the  number  of  times  forty  centimes  per 
hour  that  I  could  spare.  Forty  centimes  per  hour,  did 
I  say*?  Yes,  and  that  was  ten  centimes  more  than 
others  paid  in  our  street.  Now  it  is  a  franc  per  hour, 
and  the  femmes  de  menage  of  1919  growl  most  of  the 
time  and  stop  work  when  they  want  to  whether  your 
house-cleaning  or  laundry  is  finished  or  not.  Emilie 
set  in  deliberately  to  attach  herself  to  me  and  accepted 
all  my  vagaries.  I  flatter  myself  that  it  was  not  so 
much  for  the  extra  two  sous  per  hour  as  for  the  fact 
that  she  liked  me.  My  queer  ways  interested  her. 
She  could  never  understand  why  I  washed  Scrappie's 
silk-and-wool  undershirts  myself,  but  was  willing  to 
pay  her  several  francs  for  sitting  on  the  coal-box  read- 


EMILIE  IN  MONOLOGUE 

ing  a  newspaper  or  dozing  for  hours  while  I  went  to 
the  opera. 

Emilie  was  a  vaudeville  singer  and  dancer  who  had 
lost  her  figure  and  most  of  her  teeth  before  the  bi- 
decennial  of  her  stage  career. 

"To  think,  Madame,  that  a  few  years  ago  the  posters 
on  the  Kiosque  at  the  corner  of  this  street  used  to  an- 
nounce my  number  at  the  music-halls,  and  to-day  I  'm 
down  on  the  floor  washing  your  tiles !" 

I  was  pulling  the  baby's  wool  stockings  on  drying- 
boards. 

"You  say  you  used  to  be  on  the  stage*?"  I  led  on 
sociably. 

"Yes,  Madame,  comique  excentrique.  That  is  why 
I  cannot  cook.  My  profession  required  me  always  to 
eat  in  restaurants,  but  I  can  wash  dishes,  clean  rooms 
and  build  fires.  Thanks  to  God,  for  the  service  you 
need,  I  know  how  to  mind  babies.  I  never  had  anyone 
to  help  me  with  Marcelle." 

Marcelle  was  a  fifteen  year  old  girl,  hare-lipped  and 
cross-eyed,  but  her  mother  loved  her  dearly.  Emilie 
did  not  say  who  Marcelle's  father  was.  But  she  was 
not  as  reticent  as  the  woman  of  Samaria,  and  would 
have  scorned  to  come  to  me  under  false  pretenses. 
Tout  savoir  est  tout  pardonner.  If  you  cannot  live  up 
to  the  spirit  of  that  motto,  do  not  plan  a  life  without 
worry  for  yourself  in  Paris. 

"Last  year,  before  I  found  you,  Madame,  Marcelle 

99 


PARIS  VISTAS 

and  I  were  out  of  work.  When  you  came  in  here  in 
July  we  had  earned  only  fifty  francs  in  two  months. 
Marcelle  did  not  get  her  job  as  laundry  apprentice 
until  October.  Oh  no,  we  did  n't  exactly  starve.  You 
can  get  cold-boiled  potatoes  and  they  sell  bits  of  bread 
and  left  over  coffee  very  cheap  at  night  when  the 
restaurants  close." 

Here  she  sat  up  to  wring  her  floor-rag  into  the  brown 
water  of  the  pail. 

"I  hope  you  '11  not  regret  spoiling  me  the  way  you 
do.  You  let  me  talk,  but  you  can  trust  me  not  to 
forget  myself.  Take  this  afternoon  when  those  ladies 
are  coming  for  tea.  You  know  how  I  wait  on  the  table. 
That  is  a  role.  I  get  my  happiness  in  considering 
everything  a  role.  I  play  at  being  femme  de  menage. 
These  dirty  old  clothes  are  my  costume :  the  bucket  and 
mop  are  stage  properties." 

"Do  you  like  having  company  at  tea?"  I  broke  in. 

"That  depends." 

"On  what?" 

"On  who  they  are."  Here  Emilie  made  up  her  mind 
to  speak  with  firmness.  "Now,  without  indiscretion, 
Madame,  the  ladies  you  asked  for  this  afternoon  are  not 
interesting.  I  was  here  when  two  of  them  called  and 
you  told  them  to  come  to  tea." 

"Why  not?" 

"The  Latin  Quarter  is  full  of  women  like  that.  I 
know.  I  have  worked  for  them.  I  have  been  cleaning 

100 


EMILIE  IN  MONOLOGUE 

at  studios  and  apartments  like  yours  in  this  neighbor- 
hood ever  since  I  left  the  stage.  I  have  seen  what 
these  women  paint.  Oh  la!  la!  Sometimes  you  can- 
not tell  the  canvas  from  the  palette,  Cubism  they  call 
it,  to  hide  the  fact  that  they  cannot  draw  and  could 
not  reproduce  a  figure  or  any  recognizable  object  to 
save  their  lives.  No,  I  'm  not  talking  of  beginners. 
I  'm  talking  about  the  old  ones,  the  women,  Americans 
and  English,  who  do  not  know  how  to  paint  kitchen 
chairs  or  carry  a  tune,  and  yet  art  schools  and  music 
academies  flourish  on  their  fees.  They  were  misfits 
where  they  came  from.  It  pays  their  relatives  to  send 
them  money  every  month  so  they  won't  come  home. 
But  why  should  Paris — that  is,  our  part  of  Paris — be 
the  dumping  ground4?  You  say  that  there  are  more 
men  of  that  kind  than  women*?  Yes,  oh  yes,  many 
more.  But  then,  after  a  certain  time  men  give  up 
posing.  They  do  not  mind  being  taken  at  their  real 
value.  When  they  are  failures,  they  admit  it.  The 
women  keep  on  pretending." 

Emilie  was  as  good  as  her  word.  With  a  shining 
face  and  hair  well  slicked  back  from  her  ears  she 
appeared  at  tea  time.  The  ample  front  was  covered 
by  a  clean  white  apron.  She  stood  at  my  elbow,  her 
black  beady  eyes  keen  to  see  what  I  needed  before  I 
asked  for  it.  Oui,  Madame  and  voila,  Madame  came 
as  softly  as  though,  born  in  a  pantry,  she  had  always 
served  tea.  But  she  could  not  keep  up  the  play  with- 

101 


PARIS  VISTAS 

out  the  relief  of  an  occasional  entr'acte.  When  she 
brought  me  a  pot  of  fresh  tea  and  guests  happened  to 
be  looking  the  other  way,  she  would  give  a  broad  wink 
and  bolt  from  the  room.  When  the  guests  left,  the 
kitchen  door  was  closed. 

"I  ought  to  have  made  one  more  appearance, 
Madame,"  said  Emilie  a  few  moments  later  as  she 
settled  herself  comfortably  in  the  steamer-chair  and 
took  a  pinch  of  snuff.  "The  model  servant  would  have 
helped  them  on -with  their  coats.  But  I  had  all  I  could 
stand." 

"But  you  did  very  well,  Emilie." 

"I  got  more  fun  out  of  it  than  you  did.  I  said  that 
you  were  wasting  your  time  on  those  people.  What 
did  they  do"?  Told  you  you  looked  badly.  Asked 
why  you  were  so  tired.  Advised  you  to  get  a  doctor 
for  the  baby's  cough.  And  you  think  they  meant  well1? 
That  it  was  solicitude*?" 

Here  Emilie  laughed  heartily  and  wiped  the  snuff 
off  her  hands  with  the  greasy  blue  apron  that  now 
replaced  the  white  one. 

"You  are  naive,  dear  Madame.  Women  love  to 
tease  each  other  that  way,  especially  those  who  are  not 
well  or  strong  themselves.  They  hate  you  for  not 
having  ills.  If  you  told  them  that  you  had  a  physical 
examination  last  week  and  the  doctor  said  you  were  in 
perfect  condition,  they  would  shake  their  heads  gravely 

102 


EMILIE  IN  MONOLOGUE 

and  warn  you  that  you  are  underweight  for  your 
height." 

"They  did  make  me  mad,  I  confess,  when  they 
volunteered  advice  about  Scrappie.  They  used  to 
scold  me  for  nursing  my  baby  and  they  scolded  me  to- 
day when  they  heard  I  had  stopped  nursing  her." 

"That 's  it !  That 's  it !"  cried  Emilie.  "Next  time 
they  talk  like  that,  show  them  the  little  thing,  beautiful 
rose  de  mai  that  she  is,  and  ask  them  in  what  way  she 
looks  badly." 

Throughout  the  year  at  Twenty-One,  Emilie  was  a 
tower  of  strength  to  me.  When  we  sent  our  pitchpine 
back  to  William  Shakespeare  and  packed  our  rugs 
and  brasses,  she  was  on  hand  as  she  had  been  the  day 
we  set  up  our  Lares  and  Penates  in  the  Rue  Servandoni. 
She  urged  that  we  take  her  to  Constantinople  with  us. 
We  did,  and  never  regretted  it — if  only  for  her  com- 
ments on  the  Turks  and  Greeks  and  Armenians.  When 
she  realized  that  we  needed  other  care  than  she  could 
give  us,  Emilie  quietly  dismissed  herself  and  went  back 
to  France  to  live  in  Bordeaux.  We  see  her  there  occa- 
sionally. She  still  wears  my  old  hats  and  blouses. 
She  is  still  a  femme  de  menage.  And  Marcelle  has 
continued  to  wield  the  flat-iron. 


103 


CHAPTER  X 

HUNTING    APACHES 

I  WAS  bathing  Christine  before  the  fire.  Gabry  and 
Esther  came  in.  The  two  girls  settled  themselves 
in  steamer  chairs. 

"We  want  to  know  if  you  will  let  us  come  and  sleep 
in  your  dining-room  to-night,"  asked  Esther. 

"Sure,"  I  answered,  "but,  mercy  me,  the  bed  in 
there  is  a  little  bit  of  a  narrow  one.  .  .  ." 

"That  does  n't  matter,"  said  Gabry. 

"No,  indeed,"  agreed  Esther.  "We  can  cuddle  up 
close  and  we  shan't  be  in  it  very  long." 

The  baby  began  to  howl.  I  had  been  listening  to 
the  girls  and  the  side  of  the  tub  had  got  hot. 

"Poor  little  dear,"  said  Esther.  "Her  mother  for- 
got her  and  she  began  to  parboil." 

I  had  the  baby  safely  on  my  lap  now  wrapped  in 
towels.  Emilie  carried  away  the  bath  tub. 

"What's  going  on  to-night^"  I  asked. 

"Well,  it 's  a  fling,"  said  Esther.  "You  know  how 
it  is  up  at  the  Hostel.  They  are  so  fussy — you  would 
think  it  was  an  old  ladies'  home.  Two  boys  that  came 
over  in  our  ship  have  been  studying  forestry  in  some 
German  school.  They  are  here  for  the  holidays.  We 

104 


HUNTING  APACHES 

got  them  to  promise  to  take  us  with  them  to-night  to 
see  the  town — cafe  stuff,  you  know." 

"Where  are  you  going  *?"  I  asked. 

"To  a  cellar  where  they  do  the  Apache  dance." 

"You  don't  want  to  see  that,"  I  suggested.  "It 
is  n't  real.  Just  a  plant  to  catch  parties  like  you. 
Why  Herbert  and  I  saw  that  stunt  done  in  a  cinema  the 
other  night.  There  was  a  French  couple  back  of  us. 
They  giggled  over  it.  The  man  said,  'Wait  a  minute. 
The  police  are  sure  to  come  in  after  that  party  of 
Americans  are  comfortably  settled  with  some  drinks.'  " 

"You  don't  mean  it,"  said  Esther.  "Don't  take  the 
edge  off  our  spree." 

"I  'm  not  taking  off  edges.  Only  in  the  cinema  the 
other  night  it  was  instructive  the  way  the  policemen 
came  in.  After  they  had  driven  out  the  most  mur- 
derous dancing  Apaches,  the  Americans  thought  it  was 
too  hot  and  fled.  You  ought  to  have  seen  the  way 
fake  Apaches  and  barmaids  laughed  at  them  afterwards. 
What  is  your  plan  for  the  night*?" 

"First  to  dinner  in  some  spicy  cafe,  then  the  theatre. 
We  're  going  to  see  Chantecler.  Everybody  's  crazy 
about  it." 

"Excepting  people  who  think  it  is  silly,"  put  in 
Gabry. 

"Well,  if  it 's  silly  to  see  actors  dressed  up  in  pea- 
cock feathers,"  cried  Esther,  "we  '11  have  a  good  time. 
And  there  '11  be  supper  somewhere  afterwards." 

105 


PARIS  VISTAS 

"Going  to  make  a  regular  night  of  it,  aren't  you1?" 

"That 's  just  the  point.  Helen,  you  're  a  dear  to  be 
so  sympathetic.  Up  at  the  student  Hostel.  .  .  ." 

"Did  they  object  there  to  your  going?" 

"They  don't  know  a  thing  about  it.  It  would  never 
do  to  tell  them." 

"Why?" 

"They  'd  begin  to  preach,"  protested  Esther.  "A 
pack  of  school  teachers  anyway.  That 's  why  we  want 
to  spend  the  night  here.  We  '11  just  explain,  you  un- 
derstand, that  we  're  going  to  spend  the  night  with  their 
dear  lovely  Mrs.  Gibbons.  And  they  '11  never  know 
a  thing  about  the  fun." 

The  girls  were  moving  towards  the  door. 

"The  boys  will  come  here  to  get  us,"  called  Esther. 
"We  '11  come  down  about  half-past  six.  Herbert 
won't  mind,  will  he?" 

"We  must  move  along  now,"  said  Gabry.  "I  have 
a  singing  lesson." 

"And  I  have  a  fitting  at  the  dressmaker's,"  added 
Esther.  "Ta,  ta,  Helen." 

I  felt  in  my  bones  that  I  did  n't  quite  know  what  to 
do  about  it  and  would  wait  until  Herbert  came  home. 

When  Herbert  returned  from  the  Bibliotheque 
Nationale  at  noon,  I  told  him  about  my  visitors. 

"Why  on  earth — "  he  began  to  comment. 

"Oh,  they  are  going  to  do  the  Grand  Boulevards  with 

106 


HUNTING  APACHES 

a  couple  of  young  American  fellows  who  are  in  Paris 
for  a  vacation,"  I  said. 

"What 's  the  matter  with  those  girls,"  exclaimed 
Herbert.  "What's  gotten  into  their  heads'?  Do 
they  think  they  can  come  here  and  start  off  on  an  ex- 
pedition like  that?  If  they  were  older,  it  would  be 
different.  If  they  're  afraid  to  tell  the  Hostel  people, 
it  shows  they  know  well  enough  it  is  n't  just  the  thing 
for  them  to  do." 

"I  thought  so  myself." 

"Well,  why  did  n't  you  right  up  and  say  it  from  the 
beginning*?" 

"Girls  would  n't  take  it  from  me.  My  game  was  to 
be  absorbent  and  get  the  whole  story.  They  're  nearly 
as  old  as  I  am.  I  could  n't  dictate  to  them.  I  don't 
know  how  to  get  out  of  it." 

"I  see,"  mused  Herbert. 

The  girls  came  in  about  six  o'clock  to  dress  for  dinner. 
They  had  their  suitcases  and  some  flowers,  and  Esther 
brought  her  light  blue  hat  in  a  paper  bundle.  I  had 
told  them  to  telephone  their  boys  to  come  to  dinner 
with  us  before  starting  out  for  the  theater.  This  was 
the  only  way  I  could  think  of  to  manage  things  so  that 
Herbert  could  see  them  before  they  started  away. 

Esther  put  on  the  pretty  bright  blue  dress  she  had 
bought  at  the  model  shop  to  go  with  the  light  blue  hat. 
She  placed  the  hat,  still  in  its  paper  cover,  on  the  top 

107 


PARIS  VISTAS 

of  the  wardrobe  in  the  dining-room.  Gabry  played 
with  Scrappie,  sitting  on  the  floor  beside  her,  where 
she  was  tied  in  her  papa's  steamer  chair.  Esther 
perched  herself  on  the  stool  in  the  kitchen  and  watched 
me  frying  sausages.  Herbert  came  in  after  a  bit  and 
wheeled  right  around  from  the  front  door  into  the 
kitchen.  He  did  n't  have  to  walk.  It  was  n't  far 
enough. 

"Hello,  Esther,  what  are  you  up  to?"  said  Herbert. 

"Hello,  Herb." 

"Come  on  in  the  other  room.  I  want  to  talk  to 
you,"  said  Herbert. 

He  closed  the  door  and  I  heard  them  talking  hard. 

"Gee !"  said  Gabry.  "Esther  sounds  mad,  does  n't 
she?" 

"Herbert 's  telling  her  what  he  thinks  of  the  party," 
I  said. 

"He  does  n't  want  us  to  go,  does  he?"  said  Gabry. 

"Oh,  he  's  not  breaking  up  the  party.  Not  a  bit  of 
it.  He  only  says  that  seeing  nobody  of  your  crowd 
knows  French  and  seeing  that  your  mother  made  us 
promise  to  look  after  you,  he  wants  to  know  what  cafe 
and  theatre  you  're  going  to." 

Just  as  a  rather  mad-looking  Esther  and  a  smiling 
Herbert  appeared,  there  was  a  ring  at  the  bell,  and  in 
came  the  boys,  two  rosy-cheeked  American  youngsters. 
They  came  into  the  kitchen  to  talk  to  me  a  moment, 
and  then  Herbert  took  them  into  the  dining-room  to 

108 


HUNTING  APACHES 

explain  things.  I  heard  him  talking  with  them,  nice 
American  chaps  they  were,  not  looking  for  trouble  a  bit. 
Not  the  type  out  for  the  booze,  just  bright  youngsters 
who  were  going  on  the  boulevards  out  of  curiosity. 

We  lighted  up  the  candles  in  the  bedroom-study. 
Herbert  put  some  new  ones  in  the  candlesticks  on  the 
piano  and  we  soon  got  things  going.  One  of  the  boys 
was  taken  into  the  bedroom-study  to  play  a  tune  on  the 
piano,  and  soon  Esther  cheered  up  with  a  face  more  or 
less  of  an  April  one. 

"Hello,  boys,"  said  Herbert.  "The  girls  have  been 
telling  us — Mrs.  Gibbons  and  I  want  you  to  have  din- 
ner with  us  here  first  so  we  can  talk  over  the  party." 

"Sure,"  said  John.  "We  have  tickets  for  Chan- 
tecler" 

We  sat  down  and  tackled  coquilles  Saint-Jacques. 

"You  don't  want  to  get  in  any  trouble  over  this 
game,"  Herbert  went  on.  "Not  speaking  French  and 
all  that.  .  .  ." 

"That 's  so,  too,"  said  Joe. 

"Chantecler  is  fine  and  dandy,"  said  Herbert.  "If 
you  want  supper  afterwards,  here  's  the  address  of  a 
nice  little  cafe." 

"Sunday  school  picnic,"  moaned  Esther. 

"Esther 's  inconsolable.  She  thinks  I  'm  spoiling 
the  fun.  But  these  boys  don't  want  to  get  into  a 
doubtful  little  hole.  You  don't  know  what  you  're 
doing,  Esther,"  said  Herbert. 

109 


PARIS  VISTAS 

"I  'm  as  old  as  your  wife,  so  there." 

"You  fellows  do  not  want  to  spend  a  terrible  lot  of 
money.  I  know  you  don't.  Esther  is  mad  as  a  hornet 
at  me  because  I  am  going  to  squelch  her  idea  of  going 
to  Montmartre  or  Les  Halles  for  a  hot  old  time.  I 
don't  want  to  seem  a  poor  sport,  but  you  know  some 
of  those  cafes  are  fakes,  others  are  what  I  shall  not 
mention,  and  there  is  a  third  category  of  really  dan- 
gerous ones.  The  entire  business  is  carried  on  to  catch 
and  mulct  tourists.  If  you  happen  to  drift  into  the 
fake  places,  nothing  more  serious  would  happen  than 
getting  stuck  good  and  hard.  You  would  simply  have 
to  pay  the  waiter  whatever  was  on  the  bill.  If  you 
were  considerably  older  and  knew  how  to  speak  French, 
the  slumming  might  prove  interesting — for  one  evening. 
But  for  you  the  game  is  not  worth  the  candle.  I  don't 
mind  your  going  for  a  jaunt  along  the  boulevards,  and 
I  can  tell  you  some  of  the  cafes  that  are  all  right. 
But  as  for  Les  Halles — that  does  n't  go." 

The  boys  were  sensible.  They  fell  in  with  our  sug- 
gestions without  discussion.  After  dinner  the  four 
went  off  to  their  show.  Next  morning  I  heard  Esther 
telling  Scrappie  all  about  it. 

"The  W.C.T.U.  wasn't  in  it,  baby.  Chantecler 
was  written  to  please  kids  of  your  age.  There  was 
nobody  in  that  Y.M.C.A.  cafe  your  daddy  sent  us  to. 
My  blue  hat  was  the  most  conspicuous  object  in  the 
place.  We  did  n't  see  a  thing.  No  types^  no  wicked- 

110 


HUNTING  APACHES 

ness,  no  models,  more  than  we  ordinarily  see  around 
the  Quarter." 

Gabry's  eyeglasses  were  shaking  on  her  nose. 

"Tell  her  what  Monsieur  Sempe  said,"  urged  Gabry. 

"Yes,  baby,"  said  Esther,  who  was  laughing  in  spite 
of  herself  now.  "Our  mama  boys  wanted  to  be  polite 
in  the  American  way  last  night.  They  brought  us 
here  and  did  n't  want  to  leave  us  until  they  saw  us 
inside  your  saintly  doors.  But  Monsieur  Sempe 
stopped  them  down  at  the  street  door.  He  simply 
yelled  at  the  boys,  'Ca  ne  se  fait  pas  a  Paris  ^  Messieurs.' 

"No,"  concluded  Esther,  "from  start  to  finish,  baby, 
there  was  nothing  about  our  party  that  would  have  hurt 
your  lily-white  soul." 


ill 


CHAPTER  XI 

DRIFTWOOD 

I  WAS  nursing  Scrapple.  Herbert  came  into  the 
bedroom  and  started  to  speak  slowly  as  if  he 
was  n't  sure  how  I  would  take  what  he  was  going  to  say. 

"Fellow  out  here  who  is  hungry.     What  shall  I  do*?" 

"Feed  him,"  said  I.  Herbert  did  not  have  to  tell 
me  that  he  had  no  money  to  give  the  man  to  buy  a 
meal.  "Could  n't  you  ask  him  to  dinner  if  he  is  all 
right?" 

"Well,  he  is  sort  of  an  old  chap,"  said  Herbert  doubt- 
fully. 

I  lighted  a  candle  and  put  it  on  the  end  of  the 
mantel-piece  nearest  to  the  baby's  bed.  She  was  per- 
fectly contented  to  go  to  sleep  alone  if  she  could  watch 
a  candle  flicker. 

When  I  had  settled  Scrappie  and  opened  the  window 
and  closed  the  door  gently,  I  went  into  the  dining-room 
and  found  Mr.  Thompson.  Sparse  grey  hair,  watery 
blue  eyes,  a  talkative  individual  who  hoped  he  was  not 
bothering  us  too  much.  He  wore  a  frock  coat  with 
shiny  revers.  His  cuffs  were  unstarched  and  frayed, 
but  they  were  clean.  Herbert  had  brought  in  some 
cold  boiled  potatoes.  In  those  days  you  bought  them 


DRIFTWOOD 

cooked  at  the  charcuterie  for  the  same  price  that  you 
got  them  raw  at  the  greengrocer's.  It  was  a  good 
scheme.  You  could  peel  them  and  slice  them  in  a 
jiffy, — then  warm  them  with  eggs  broken  up  and 
scrambled  in  the  pan  beside  them.  This  with  cheese 
and  nuts  and  liqueurs  made  a  meal  without  using  too 
much  gas.  You  did  it  yourself,  using  no  more  energy 
than  would  be  taken  out  of  you  if  it  had  been  done  by 
a  cook. 

Mr.  Thompson  did  not  lie  when  he  told  Herbert  he 
was  hungry.  He  had  three  helpings  of  everything. 
He  said  little  during  the  meal,  but  he  did  not  eat  with 
his  knife.  When  it  came  to  cigars,  he  pushed  back  his 
chair  and  spread  out  his  hands  to  the  boulet  fire.  Cast- 
ing his  eye  from  the  molding  to  the  floor,  he  included 
the  dining-room  and  all  the  rest  of  the  apartment  with  a 
sweeping  gesture  and  a  couple  of  "Ha-Has." 

"From  the  looks  of  this  joint,  you  two  youngsters 
have  n't  any  more  money  than  you  need.  This  is  a 
good  joke  on  me,  too  good  a  joke  to  keep  to  myself. 
You  have  given  me  a  square  deal  along  with  a  square 
meal,  and  I  appreciate  it.  I  have  lived  for  years  in  this 
Quarter  and  have  earned  precious  little  money.  Sort 
of  a  down-and-outer.  I  am,  I  suppose,  one  of  the 
Quarter's  charity  patients.  Don't  worry.  I  am  not 
going  to  beg  of  you.  First  time  I  came  to  Paris,  it  was 
by  way  of  England.  I  stayed  a  long  time  in  Oxford 
and  made  friends  with  the  Cowley  Fathers.  Then  I 

113 


PARIS  VISTAS 

buried  myself  in  the  Bibliotheque  Nationale,  for  I  was 
starting  a  thesis  in  church  history." 

"Indeed,"  cried  Herbert.  "I  have  a  fellowship  in 
Church  History  myself.  What  is  your  subject?" 

"Religious  orders  after  the  Reformation,"  said  Mr. 
Thompson. 

"Have  you  published  anything?"  asked  my  husband. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Thompson.  "Queer  thing  life  is. 
We  get  loose  from  our  moorings  when  we  least  expect 
it.  You  won't  believe  me,  but  American  generosity 
was  my  undoing!" 

"How  could  that  be?"  I  put  in. 

"Don't  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Thompson,  "that  we  are 
not  as  much  the  captain  of  our  souls  as  we  like  to 
think?" 

He  was  in  a  steamer  chair  now,  and  lying  back,  he 
blew  smoke  at  the  ceiling. 

"But  you  were  saying,  Mr.  Thompson,"  said  I. 

"I  was  saying  more  than  I  ought  to,"  he  mused. 

He  had  forgotten  his  cigar.  Herbert  twisted  a  bit 
of  newspaper,  touched  it  to  the  glowing  boulets  and 
held  it  out  to  Mr.  Thompson.  Matches  are  expensive 
in  France. 

"Oh!"  he  started.  "I  was  away  back  years  ago. 
Thank  you.  I  was  wrong  a  minute  ago  when  I  told 
you  I  had  said  too  much.  I  have  said  too  little. 
You  have  made  me  feel  at  home,  and  I  shall  be 
frank  with  you.  It  sometimes  wrecks  a  fellow's  career 

114 


DRIFTWOOD 

if  he  receives  just  a  little  too  much  help.  What  I  am 
talking  about  is  quite  a  different  thing  from  what  I 
may  have  suggested  just  now.  Not  a  person  spoiled 
with  too  much  money.  But  I  was  spoiled  by  the  fact 
that  at  a  certain  time,  I  was  able  to  put  my  hands  on 
ever  so  little  money  when  it  was  not  good  for  me.  Not 
the  money  itself,  you  understand,  but  the  fact  that  the 
game  is  so  easy." 

"But  I  don't  understand,"  I  protested. 

"Of  course  you  don't,"  said  Mr.  Thompson. 

He  threw  the  butt  of  his  cigar  on  the  floor,  put  his 
foot  on  it,  and  took  another  from  Herbert's  box. 

"Sorry  I  have  n't  better  cigars  to  give  you,"  said  my 
husband.  "These  carres  a  deux  sous  just  suit  my 
speed." 

Alas  for  the  carres  a  deux  sous!  Of  them  as  of 
many  of  our  joys  we  must  say  Ichabod. 

"The  time  came  when  I  ran  out  of  money — but  alto- 
gether out  of  money,  you  understand.  I  waited  until  I 
was  pretty  hungry  before  I  told  anybody.  Then  the 
American  Consul  did  something  for  me.  Somebody 
gave  me  a  pair  of  shoes.  Other  persons  gave  me  money, 
and  the  day  was  saved.  Again  I  became  absorbed  in 
my  work,  to  be  interrupted  by  poverty.  This  time  I 
went  to  the  pastor  of  the  American  Church.  He  looked 
me  over.  Must  have  thought  I  was  a  good  case,  as 
he  saw  to  it  that  several  people  did  something  for  rme. 
After  all,  it  comes  easily,  and  I  have  lived  like  that 


PARIS  VISTAS 

for  years.  Sometimes  my  clothes  don't  fit  very  well, 
but  what  is  the  difference.  It  has  grown  upon  me  until 
I  am  utterly  unfit  to  earn  my  living.  You  get  nothing 
twice  from  the  Consulate,  and  churches  are  not  good 
for  much.  Besides,  the  churches  keep  a  list  of  dead- 
beats.  It  is  the  individual  Americans  one  meets  that 
give  away  their  money  carelessly.  I  found  somebody 
who  listened  sympathetically  to  my  hard-luck  story. 
The  story  itself  was  no  lie  the  first  time.  But  it  was 
so  easy — there  was  the  temptation.  I  tell  you  frankly 
that  I  fell.  I  discovered  that  I  could  do  it  again  when 
the  hard-luck  story  was  not  true." 

"I  hunted  you  up,"  continued  Mr.  Thompson,  "with 
the  idea  of  getting  something  out  of  you.  I  suppose 
if  I  put  as  much  energy  into  holding  down  a  job  as  I 
do  this,  I  could  earn  my  living.  But  the  habit  of 
living  on  the  kindness  of  other  people  has  me  in  its 
grip,  and  I  do  not  stick  to  work  when  it  is  given  to  me. 
I  have  been  pretty  faithful  to  the  Bibliotheque  all  these 
years,  for  it  is  heated  there.  I  can  read  my  paper,  write 
some  letters  and  study  a  little  on  my  church  history. 
The  thesis  is  growing  slowly,  but  that  is  all  I  can  say  I 
have  done  these  twelve  years. 

"There  are  other  people  who  do  the  same  thing,  you 
know.  You  have  met  them  without  knowing  it. 
Artist  fellows,  youngsters  as  well  as  old  ones,  under- 
stand the  game.  Do  you  know  how  they  work  it? 
It  is  known  now,  for  instance,  that  you  receive  in- 

116 


DRIFTWOOD 

formally  every  Wednesday.  There  are  other  days  and 
hosts  of  women.  So  it  goes.  A  fellow  can  get  along 
very  cheaply  like  that.  Pay  thirty  or  forty  francs  a 
month  for  a  place  to  live  and  work,  two  sous  each 
morning  for  cafe  au  lait  passed  across  the  zinc — good 
coffee  too,  as  you  perhaps  know.  They  let  you  bring 
your  roll  with  you  if  you  like.  It  will  cost  a  sou. 
One  roll  and  a  cup  of  coffee  is  enough  after  you  get 
used  to  it.  Your  only  large  expense  is  the  noon  meal. 
"Generally  the  evening  meal  you  can  pick  up.  You 
find  in  the  social  register  the  names  of  all  the  ladies, 
kind  and  unobservant,  who  have  days  at  home.  You 
stick  a  big  paper  on  your  wall  and  mark  it  off  in  seven 
columns,  one  for  each  day  of  the  week.  You  make  a 
list  of  the  woman  who  have  receiving  days,  and  you 
drop  in  somewhere  every  afternoon  about  five-thirty. 
The  tea  party  is  pretty  well  finished,  but  there  is  usually 
plenty  of  food  left.  The  ladies  have  to  provide  for 
more  than  really  come.  You  do  that  yourself,  Mrs. 
Gibbons.  The  ladies  do  not  notice  that  you  eat  more 
than  one  or  two  sandwiches  and  plenty  of  cake.  If 
they  do  notice  it,  it  makes  them  feel  happy,  and  there 
is  your  supper.  If  you  do  it  systematically  with  a  list 
like  mine,  you  do  not  have  to  go  to  Mrs.  X's  house  more 
than  twice  in  the  winter.  A  lot  of  people  in  the  Amer- 
ican colony  have  receiving  days.  It  is  easy  enough  to 
know  them.  All  of  the  boys  know  a  few,  and  we  take 
each  other  around.  The  artist  fellows  have  a  cinch. 

117 


PARIS  VISTAS 

All  they  have  to  do,  if  they  have  a  conscience,  is  to 
present  the  hostesses  to  whom  they  are  the  most  in- 
debted, with  a  couple  of  worthless  sketches.  Nobody 
ever  suspects  anything. 

"You  can  slide  in  and  out  in  the  Latin  Quarter  and 
meet  any  number  of  charming  people.  They  never 
stay  too  long  and  there  are  always  new  ones  coming  in. 
No  hostess  is  superior  to  the  flattery  implied  when  her 
tea  is  appreciated.  I  have  learned  to  praise  sandwiches 
so  that  I  can  get  a  fair  supply.  I  write  an  article 
occasionally,  and  that  covers  my  rent.  Clothes  are  an 
easy  matter.  Any  number  of  people  in  Paris  will  give 
away  clothes.  You  see  I  am  a  deadbeat.  I  was  a 
deadbeat  to-day  when  I  saw  in  the  Herald  that  Mrs. 
Gibbons  was  going  to  be  at  home  this  afternoon." 

Mr.  Thompson  got  up  to  go. 

"Where  did  you  put  your  overcoat,"  asked  Herbert. 

"I  have  none,"  said  my  guest. 

Herbert's  eyes  met  mine.     I  telegraphed  "Yes." 

Certainly  we  gave  Herbert's  old  overcoat  to  Mr. 
Thompson.  As  we  talked  about  it  afterwards,  Her- 
bert observed, 

"We  could  not  help  giving  him  the  coat,  could  we?" 

"No,  of  course  not." 

We  never  saw  Mr.  Thompson  again.  It  is  n't  in  the 
picture.  Driftwood ! 


118 


CHAPTER  XII 

SOME    OF    OUR    GUESTS 

THE  best  fun  of  having  a  home  is  sharing  it  with 
your  friends.  But  you  deprive  yourself  of  this 
fun — in  a  very  large  measure,  at  least — if  you  make 
entertaining  a  burden  or  a  great  expense.  In  the  Rue 
Servandoni  we  tried  out  theories  about  hospitality  that 
have  become  firmly  rooted  family  principles.  Guests 
are  always  welcome,  and  we  never  feed  them  better 
than  we  feed  ourselves.  Company  is  the  rule:  not  the 
exception.  I  suppose  my  Irish  temperament  made  this 
possible  in  the  beginning.  Now  we  would  not  give  up 
our  way  of  living  for  anything  in  the  world.  By  the 
standards  of  my  own  family  I  am  not  regarded  as  a 
good  housekeeper.  I  am  finicky  only  about  cleanliness 
and  the  quality  and  quantity  of  food.  The  rest  does  n't 
matter.  That  is,  I  have  no  almanac  to  show  me  when 
to  put  away  the  winter  clothes  and  when  to  do  Spring 
house-cleaning.  I  do  not  get  "all  out  of  kelter"  if  the 
wash  is  done  on  Thursday  instead  of  Monday:  and  I 
never  "put  up"  fruit  or  bake.  I  buy  my  preserves 
from  the  grocer  and  my  bread  and  cake  from  the  baker. 
When  I  look  back  on  Rue  Servandoni  days  and  try 
to  analyze  my  attitude  towards  housekeeping,  I  think 

119 


PARIS  VISTAS 

first  that  I  may  have  been  demoralized  by  living 
through  the  Armenian  massacres  just  before  going  to 
Paris.  It  was  enough  to  make  me  happy  in  the  morn- 
ing to  realize  that  my  husband  and  baby  were  alive. 
Did  I  have  a  new  sense  of  values,  born  of  suffering^ 
Or  perhaps  it  was  n't  anything  as  high-brow  or  pious  as 
that.  Perhaps  it  was  the  inheritance  of  shiftlessness 
that  came  down  to  me  from  the  ancient  Irish  kings. 
This  curious  form  of  original  sin  persists  and  makes  me 
able  to  agree  with  one  who  sang  when  things  all  got 
messed  up, 

"The  cow  's  in  the  hammock, 
The  baby  's  in  the  lake, 
The  cat 's  in  the  garbage : 
WHAT  difference  does  it  make  ?" 

Now  I  do  not  claim  that  my  way  is  altogether  right 
and  that  my  maternal  Pennsylvania  Dutch  strain  does 
not  occasionally  assert  itself,  though  feebly.  I  enjoy 
formal  and  well-ordered  entertaining  when  it  is  not  a 
pretense — when  I  do  not  have  the  uncomfortable  feel- 
ing that  my  hostess  has  worn  herself  out  getting  the 
meal  ready  or  is  offering  a  meal  beyond  her  income. 

The  alternative  in  the  Rue  Servandoni  was  to  have 
friends  take  us  as  we  were  or  to  make  an  occasional 
splurge.  The  latter  was  thoroughly  distasteful  to  us 
both.  We  held  that  what  was  good  enough  for  our- 
selves was  good  enough  for  our  friends,  and  that  they 
would  rather  come  to  our  simple  meals  than  not  come 

120 


Where  stood  the  walls  of  old  Lutetia 


SOME  OF  OUR  GUESTS 

at  all.  How  could  we  hope  to  compete  with  the  Cafe 
de  Paris  or  Armenonville?  And  we  knew  that  many 
who  came  to  us  paid  their  cook  more  than  our  total 
income. 

Is  not  the  question  of  entertaining  a  good  deal  like 
the  question  of  other  people's  wealth?  If  you  are 
continually  striving  to  keep  up  with  friends  richer  than 
you,  you  are  bound  to  feel  poor.  We  could  put  our 
heads  out  of  our  window,  and  pity  ourselves  because 
we  were  not  living  in  steam-heated,  electric-lighted 
Number  Nineteen  or  Number  Twenty-Three.  But 
then,  across  the  street,  Number  Twenty  and  Number 
Eighteen  had  logements  beside  which  our  apartment 
was  a  palace. 

Shortly  after  setting  up  our  Lares  and  Penates  in 
Number  Twenty-One,  a  friend  from  Denver  dropped 
in  just  before  supper.  He  was  a  judge  and  silver-mine 
owner,  the  father  of  one  of  my  Bryn  Mawr  college- 
mates.  I  urged  him  to  stay.  He  was  excusing  him- 
self, when  I  volunteered  the  information  that  our 
supper  consisted  of  cornmeal  mush  with  milk,  and  that 
was  all.  He  stayed,  and  told  us  that  it  was  the  best 
meal  he  had  eaten  in  Paris.  "I  just  love  cornmeal 
mush,  and  I  cannot  get  it  at  my  hotel,"  he  said.  We 
believed  him.  He  spoke  the  truth. 

There  was  always  room  at  our  table  for  friends.  An 
extra  plate,  and  a  little  more  of  what  we  were  having 
for  ourselves — that  was  all  there  was  to  it.  In  a  big 

121 


PARIS  VISTAS 

city,  especially  a  city  like  Paris  where  shops  are  in  every 
street,  getting  more  food  quickly  is  no  problem.  Her- 
bert would  just  slip  downstairs  to  Sempe's  for  eggs, 
another  chop,  another  can  of  peas,  an  additional  bottle 
of  wine.  Next  door  was  the  bakery. 

The  best  friends  of  our  married  life  have  come  to  us 
through  unpretentious  entertaining.  The  contact  of 
the  home  is  different  from  the  contact  of  the  office  or 
club  or  formal  gathering,  and  it  has  enabled  me  to  take 
every  step  forward  with  my  husband.  Our  broadened 
vision,  our  intimate  sources  of  information,  the  steps 
upward  in  our  profession  are  largely  the  result  of  the 
dinner-table  and  the  after-dinner  smoke  before  the  fire. 
One  illustration  shows  how  chance  influences  the  whole 
life. 

Early  in  the  autumn  of  1909,  we  received  a  letter 
from  a  Paris  lawyer  who  had  just  returned  from  settling 
insurance  claims  in  massacre-stricken  Cilicia.  He  had 
been  in  Tarsus  just  after  we  left,  and  wanted  to  meet 
us.  I  wrote  back  to  him,  as  I  would  have  done  to 
anyone  with  an  introduction  like  his,  "Come  to  dinner, 
and  if  there  is  a  Mrs.  K.  bring  her  with  you."  He 
sought  us  out  in  our  little  street.  There  was  no  Mrs. 
K.,  but  the  spontaneity  of  the  invitation  and  its  in- 
clusiveness  had  prompted  him  to  break  his  rule  of  not 
accepting  dinner  invitations.  He  was  a  charming  man, 
full  of  information  and  inspiration.  When  I  brought 
on  the  asparagus,  he  said  that  in  Poland  they  put  burnt 

122 


SOME  OF  OUR  GUESTS 

bread  crumbs  into  drawn-butter  sauce.  I  jumped 
right  up,  and  exclaimed,  "Nothing  easier!  We  shall 
have  asperges  a  la  polonaise  right  away."  In  three 
minutes  the  asparagus  was  to  his  taste.  The  lawyer 
thought  out,  and  made  a  suggestion  that  would  cer- 
tainly never  have  occurred  to  him  had  I  arranged  a 
formal  meeting  in  response  to  his  letter.  He  told  us 
that  the  experience  we  had  in  Turkey  we  should  not 
regard  as  accidental.  "Why  did  the  massacres  occur1? 
You  must  have  asked  yourselves  that.  Now  drop 
your  research  into  Gallicanism  and  French  ecclesiastical 
history.  A  thousand  men  are  as  well  equipped  for  that 
as  you.  Turn  your  attention  to  the  Turks  and  the 
Eastern  Question,  and  from  that  go  into  the  study  of 
the  contemporary  diplomacy  of  Europe.  The  Russian 
and  Hapsburg  Empires  are  built  upon  the  Ottoman 
Empire.  Study  the  relation  of  Turkey  to  Poland. 
This  is  the  field  for  you !" 

In  the  last  few  years  I  have  often  thought  of  that 
evening.  We  followed  the  lawyer's  advice.  He 
helped  us.  He  encouraged  us.  He  used  to  come  to 
dinner  every  Tuesday  night.  We  went  back  to 
Turkey  and  came  again  to  Paris  before  the  Great  War. 
During  the  years  of  absence,  there  had  been  frequent 
correspondence.  When  we  returned,  the  Tuesday 
evenings  were  resumed.  If  my  husband  was  ready  for 
the  work  that  came  to  him  with  the  war,  it  is  thanks  to 
the  Paris  lawyer.  The  Foundation  of  the  Ottoman 

123 


PARIS  VISTAS 

Empire,  The  New  Map  of  Europe,  The  Reconstruction 
of  Poland  and  the  Near  East,  are  the  outcome  of  table- 
talks  with  the  lawyer  that  began  in  the  Rue  Servandoni. 

In  the  pension  of  the  Rue  Madame  we  met  people 
whom  we  invited  to  come  to  see  us  in  the  Rue  Servan- 
doni. We  asked  them  to  our  table.  They  came. 
And  they  have  been  dinner  guests  in  our  different  Paris 
homes  during  the  past  decade. 

There  was  the  Catholic  Archbishop  of  Cairo,  an  Arab 
who  had  the  story-telling  gift  of  his  race.  You  do  not 
know  what  it  is  to  hear  a  story  told  until  you  have 
listened  to  an  Arab.  The  Archbishop  unfolded  to  us 
the  lore  of  the  East.  There  must  have  been  something 
about  les  petits  americains  that  interested  him,  for  our 
meals  could  not  compete  with  Mademoiselle  Guyenot's. 
He  used  to  sit  in  the  steamer-chair,  with  his  arms  folded 
over  his  gold  crucifix,  his  cape  thrown  back  on  both 
shoulders  (which  gave  a  dash  of  red),  the  end  of  a  long 
white  beard  rubbing  the  most  prominent  buttons  of  his 
cassock  front,  and  eyes  twinkling  in  unpriestly  fashion. 
He  was  the  reincarnation  of  Nasreddin  Hodja,  prince 
of  Anatolian  story-tellers.  Herbert  pokes  in  his  bath. 
One  night,  when  Scrappie  went  to  sleep  earlier  than 
usual,  Herbert  started  to  make  his  ablutions  before  the 
dining-room  fire  while  I  was  busy  in  the  kitchen.  The 
door-bell  rang.  In  came  the  archbishop.  There  was 
a  swift  change  of  persons  and  rooms.  Herbert  finished 
his  bath  in  the  kitchen  in  an  incredibly  short  time.  He 

124 


SOME  OF  OUR  GUESTS 

did  not  want  to  miss  a  moment  of  the  archbishop. 

Michi  Kawai  was  with  me  in  school  as  well  as  in 
college.  Imagine  my  delight  at  finding  her  one  day 
looking  at  old  furniture  in  the  Rue  des  Saints-Peres. 
If  I  ever  thought  of  Michi,  it  was  in  Tokio.  And  I 
never  would  have  thought  of  Michi  in  connection  with 
French  antique  furniture.  But  that  is  Paris  for  you. 
Sooner  or  later  all  your  friends  come  to  Paris.  You 
run  across  them  accidentally  and  invariably  they  are  do- 
ing something  you  would  never  have  dreamed  of  asso- 
ciating them  with.  During  her  months  in  Paris  Michi 
was  a  frequent  visitor  in  the  Rue  Servandoni.  She  was 
one  of  those  delightful  combinations  of  Occident  and 
Orient  that  Japan  produces  better  than  any  other  na- 
tion. She  was  equally  at  home  with  French  and  Ameri- 
can friends,  and,  when  Emilie  was  not  there,  knew  how 
to  juggle  my  eight  cups  and  saucers  and  spoons  back  and 
forth  between  the  tea-table  and  the  kitchen,  without 
guests  catching  on,  more  dexterously  than  any  of  my 
American  girl  friends. 

We  started  our  married  life  among  the  peoples  of  the 
Near  East,  and  we  found  them  out  there  just  like  other 
folks,  when  we  took  the  trouble  to  come  into  intimate 
contact  with  them.  Racially  of  course  they  are  dif- 
ferent from  us  as  they  are  different  from  each  other. 
Greeks,  Bulgarians,  Turks,  Armenians,  Syrians,  Egyp- 
tians, Persians — each  one  of  these  names  calls  up  faces 
of  people  I  love.  I  have  known  in  them  in  their  homes 

125 


PARIS  VISTAS 

and  in  my  home.  A  strong  tie  binds  us  to  the 
Armenians.  When  you  have  shared  the  sufferings, 
dangers  and  hardships  of  a  people,  they  belong  to  you 
and  you  belong  to  them  in  a  peculiar  way.  Armenians 
came  to  the  Rue  Servandoni,  poor  boys  with  no  money 
and  no  home  who  had  escaped  from  Turkey,  struggling 
students,  successful  painters,  brilliant  musicians, 
wealthy  merchants.  Every  collector  of  Egyptian 
curios,  of  Turkish  and  Persian  rugs,  of  Oriental  pottery, 
knows  Kelekian  of  the  Place  Vendome.  His  small 
shop  is  wedged  in  between  a  florist  and  a  ticket-scalper. 
In  the  window  you  never  see  more  than  half  a  dozen 
objects.  There  is  always  a  bowl  as  a  piece  de  resist- 
ance, a  bowl  that  only  a  Morgan  could  afford  to  own. 
Pause  and  look  over  the  curtain,  the  chances  are  that 
you  will  see  Monsieur  Kelekian  sitting  by  a  glass  case 
of  Egyptian  scarabs.  He  will  be  smoking,  and  his 
right  hand  will  be  on  the  case.  To  know  Monsieur 
Kelekian  is  to  have  faith  in  the  resurrection  of  Armenia 
and  in  the  future  of  one  of  the  oldest  races  of  history. 
We  came  to  know  him  through  his  interest  in  the  Adana 
massacres.  He  had  never  heard  of  the  Rue  Servan- 
doni, and  the  street  was  hardly  wide  enough  for  his 
automobile.  But  he  came  to  dinner  with  his  wife — in 
spite  of  a  disapproving  chauffeur,  who  thought  there 
must  be  some  mistake  and  who  insisted  on  inquiring 
for  us  first  at  Number  Twenty-Three  and  then  at 
Number  Nineteen.  Although  his  nose  never  turned 

126 


SOME  OF  OUR  GUESTS 

down,  he  became  accustomed  to  stopping  in  front  of 
the  grocery ! 

Other  chauffeurs  and  cockers  learned  during  that 
winter  a  new  street  in  Paris,  and  the  first  time  they, 
too,  made  the  mistake  of  stopping  next  door.  Mrs. 
Evans,  sister-in-law  of  the  famous  dentist,  had  a  pair 
of  black  horses  that  shone  like  the  varnish  of  her  vic- 
toria. "Dear  Mrs.  Evans,"  as  all  the  women  called 
her,  was  interested  in  every  good  work.  She  approved 
of  my  husband,  because  he  was  a  parson,  and  of  me 
because  I  had  lived  in  a  missionary  college.  She  knew 
we  had  no  money  and  did  not  expect  us  to  have  any. 
Her  carriage  was  ours  for  afternoon  rides  in  the  Bois  de 
Bologne.  Scrappie,  "that  darling  missionary  baby," 
must  have  her  weekly  outing.  Mrs.  Evans,  I  am  sure, 
believed  that  the  air  was  not  what  it  ought  to  be  in  our 
quarter  of  Paris  and  that  God  had  intrusted  her  with 
the  responsibility  of  seeing  that  we  were  occasionally 
transported  elsewhere.  During  that  year  we  made 
other  friends  in  the  American  Colony,  who,  like  Mrs. 
Evans,  cared  for  us  for  what  we  were.  They  made 
Paris  home  to  us  in  the  old-fashioned  sense  of  the  word, 
and  the  intimacies  then  formed  have  never  been  broken. 

Gypsy  Smith  was  an  English  evangelist  who  came  to 
Paris  that  winter  for  a  series  of  revival  meetings  in  the 
English-speaking  community.  He  had  been  traveling 
all  over  the  world  for  twenty  years.  His  wife  had  had 
to  stay  at  home  to  look  after  the  children.  Now,  for 

127 


PARIS  VISTAS 

the  first  time,  she  was  free  to  accompany  him,  and  came 
to  Paris  with  him.  We  showed  the  Smiths  some  of 
the  principal  tourist  points  of  interest  one  morning,  and 
they  came  home  to  lunch  with  us.  In  the  way  of  en- 
tertaining, they  had  been  "touching  the  high  spots"  in 
Paris,  as  Gypsy  Smith  was  sought  after  by  the  sub- 
stantial people  of  the  British  and  American  communi- 
ties. Our  little  home  was  a  revelation  to  them  of  the 
fact  that  there  were  other  foreigners  living  in  Paris 
than  the  rich.  Mrs.  Gypsy  was  greatly  pleased  with 
the  novelty  of  finding  "just  folks"  in  Paris.  "A  cozy 
little  nest  you  have  here,"  she  said,  giving  me  a  nudge 
with  her  elbow. 

There  were  so  many  people  to  see  in  Paris,  old 
friends  from  home  as  well  as  new  friends,  that  I  soon 
began  to  have  my  afternoon.  On  Wednesdays  I  re- 
ceived in  that  tiny  dining-room,  with  my  eight  cups  and 
saucers  and  spoons,  just  as  if  I  were  mistress  of  a  large 
establishment.  At  first,  our  neighbors  thought  it  was  a 
christening  or  funeral.  When  they  realized  that  les 
fetits  americains  over  the  epicerie  were  having  a  weekly 
"at  home,"  they  were  confirmed  in  their  impression  of 
our  wealth.  I  confess  that  it  was  crowded  at  times 
and  that  the  party  had  to  overflow  into  the  bedroom. 
But  it  was  fun,  especially  when  one  of  my  girlhood 
friends,  who  had  known  me  in  Germantown  days  in  my 
mother's  home,  would  bring  her  whole  family  along  to 

128 


SOME  OF  OUR  GUESTS 

see  me,  and  exclaim,  "Why,  Helen  Brown — !"  But  I 
would  get  them  all  in. 

Two  days  after  Christmas,  my  husband  urged  me  to 
go  walking  with  him.  He  pointed  out  that  no  one 
would  come.  But  I  refused.  I  had  more  conscience 
when  I  was  young  than  I  have  now.  Being  "at  home" 
meant  sticking  by  the  game.  I  had  cheered  up  the 
boulet  fire  in  the  dining-room.  The  cups  were  on  the 
table.  My  china  platter  held  a  gateau  mocha  of  dear 
memory.  Shall  we  ever  again  be  able  to  buy  layer- 
cakes  with  coffee  icing  an  inch  thick  done  in  the  delec- 
table ups  and  downs  like  a  wedding  cake?  And  that  at 
one  franc-twenty-five"? 

"Run  down,  dear,  and  get  me  some  hot  crescents. 
It 's  after  four  o'clock,  so  they  '11  be  ready." 

"Now,  look  here.  You  've  got  to  be  sensible. 
Everyone  has  hosts  of  things  to  do  Christmas  week. 
Nobody  will  come.  We  '11  eat  the  cakes  for  supper. 
Let 's  go  over  the  river." 

"No,  that  would  n't  be  fair.  Somebody  might 
come." 

Herbert  got  the  crescents,  put  more  boulets  where  I 
could  get  them  easily,  and  was  gone. 

I  settled  myself  in  the  steamer-chair.  No  sound  ex- 
cept the  ticking  of  our  little  traveling-clock,  and  the 
dropping  of  a  boulet  on  the  hearth.  An  hour  slipped 
by,  and  I  began  to  realize  that  I  might  just  as  well  have 

129  , 


PARIS  VISTAS 

gone  out.  A  ring  at  the  bell.  When  I  opened  the 
door,  there  was  my  husband  holding  a  bouquet  of  roses 
big  enough  for  a  bridesmaid. 

"Good  afternoon,"  said  he,  bowing  low;  "do  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Gibbons  live  here?" 

"To  be  sure,"  said  I,  stifling  a  giggle.  "I  am  Mrs. 
Gibbons." 

"Indeed."  My  visitor  shook  hands  with  me  and 
explained,  "Mrs.  Gibbons,  I  am  delighted  to  meet  you. 
I  knew  your  husband  years  and  years  ago — before  he 
was  married,  in  fact.  The  first  pleasure  I  have  allowed 
myself  in  Paris  is  to  look  up  my  friend  Gibbons  and 
his  wife." 

He  hung  hat  and  overcoat  in  the  hall,  and  handed 
me  the  flowers.  "What  a  charming  dining-room4? 
Dear  me,  have  I  intruded?  You  were  having  a 
party?" 

"Just  my  day  at  home." 

We  chatted  for  a  full  hour,  discussing  the  fate  of  the 
House  of  Lords,  about  which  my  new  friend  confided 
that  he  was  writing  an  article.  He  hoped  some  editor 
would  publish  it.  We  talked  of  the  possibilities  of 
next  year's  Salons  and  disagreed  on  the  subject  of 
futurist  painting.  I  told  my  visitor  about  the  many 
American  friends  that  were  turning  up,  and  how  the 
Gibbonses  realized  that  if  they  wanted  to  get  any  work 
done  in  Paris  they  would  have  to  stop  acting  as  guides. 
What  did  he  think  about  adopting  a  policy  of  telling 

130 


SOME  OF  OUR  GUESTS 

people  that  Thomas  Cook  had  mighty  good  guides  at  ten 
francs  a  day?  Perhaps,  however,  we  should  make  the 
last  exception  with  him,  and  show  him  the  town. 

We  talked  of  Christmas,  and  then  I  was  asked  if  I 
had  a  baby.  I  replied  that  of  course  I  did.  She  was 
over  in  the  Luxembourg  Garden  with  Marie,  who  kept 
her  out  late  on  my  at-home  day,  but  who  would  soon 
bring  her  in. 

"People  that  see  resemblance  in  coloring  say  she 
looks  like  me,  but  those  that  see  resemblance  in  contour 
say  she  's  the  image  of  her  daddy." 

"So !"  said  my  visitor. 

I  put  my  arms  around  the  contour. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WALKS    AT    NIGHTFALL 

THE  Prince  whom  Tartarin  met  in  Africa  had 
lived  a  long  time  in  Tarascon,  and  knew  remark- 
ably well  one  side  of  the  town.  He  knew  nothing  of 
the  other  side.  This  puzzled  Tartarin  until  he  found 
out  that  his  noble  friend's  residence  in  Tartarin's  na- 
tive town  was  a  compulsory  one.  The  Prince  had  am- 
ple time  to  study  a  certain  aspect  of  Tarascon  in  detail 
from  the  little  window  of  his  penitentiary  cell.  We 
do  not  all  have  the  privilege  of  devoting  ourselves,  as 
the  Prince  did,  to  a  minute  study  of  just  one  view  from 
just  one  vantage-point.  And  yet,  in  certain  things  we 
share  the  Prince's  experience.  We  become  accustomed 
to  a  definite  aspect  of  the  things  we  see  to  the  exclusion 
of  other  aspects.  Thus  it  is  that  I  know  many  parts  of 
Paris  familiarly  as  they  appear  at  nightfall.  I  could 
go  to  these  quarters  at  other  times,  but  I  never  have.  I 
fear  the  breaking  of  the  spell.  I  fear  disillusion. 
And  if  you  want  to  follow  me  in  Paris  walks  through 
this  chapter,  plan  your  strolls  from  five  to  seven  dur- 
ing the  winter  months. 

It  began  this  way.     In  the  Bibliotheque  Nationale, 
as  in  the  Paris  of  parks  and  gardens,  the  closing  hour 

132 


WALKS  AT  NIGHTFALL 

follows  the  sun.  The  Bibliotheque  has  no  lights.  It 
turns  you  out  at  four,  half-past  four,  five  or  six  accord- 
ing to  the  season.  During  the  months  of  longer  days, 
we  stayed  until  the  last  bell.  In  the  winter  we  were 
put  out  before  the  afternoon  was  over.  One  did  not 
feel  like  making  for  home  immediately.  It  was  too 
late  to  go  far  afield.  We  started  in  to  explore  Paris 
in  a  widening  circle  from  the  Rue  de  Richelieu.  My 
husband  had  covered  much  of  this  ground  in  summer 
months  with  the  Scholar  from  Oxford.  When  the 
light  held  out  until  late,  they  had  time  to  visit  old 
Paris  with  the  books  of  Georges  Cain  for  guides.  In 
the  winter  months  Herbert  took  me  over  this  ground 
again.  But  I  saw  it  all  at  nightfall  or  after  dark. 

It  was  a  wonderful  discovery,  to  combine  exercise 
with  interesting  sight-seeing  at  the  end  of  the  day. 
The  habit  of  walks  through  city  streets,  thus  formed, 
has  been  persisted  in  through  many  busy  years.  I 
recommend  it,  even  to  tourists.  Use  your  precious  days 
for  churches  and  museums  and  palaces.  After  they 
are  closed,  walk  for  an  hour  or  two  each  night.  You 
will  find  diversity,  and,  like  Horatio,  things  you  never 
dreamed  of.  And  no  matter  how  long  you  live  in 
Paris,  there  is  always  something  new  to  explore  and 
something  equally  new  when  you  follow  beaten  tracks. 

You  have  to  be — or  grow — catholic  in  your  tastes  if 
you  want  to  enjoy  what  Paris  at  nightfall  offers.  Of 
course  in  the  beginning  you  look  for  certain  things. 

133 


PARIS  VISTAS 

You  have  a  goal:  tracing  the  city  walls  from  old 
Lutetia  to  Henri  IV;  seeking  traces  of  mediaeval  days; 
spotting  Renaissance  architecture;  visiting  historic 
spots  or  buildings  associated  with  famous  names  or 
events;  reconstructing  Paris  of  the  Revolution;  or  fol- 
lowing the  characters  of  Victor  Hugo  through  Les 
Miserable!.  Before  long  you  join  all  these  goals,  and 
jump  from  architecture  to  history,  from  history  to 
literature.  In  the  end,  every  walk  you  take  is  the 
observation  of  living  people  inseparable  from  an  in- 
comparably picturesque  setting.  It  may  take  a  long 
time  to  realize  that  your  primary  interest  is  humankind. 
But  when  you  do  the  world  is  a  kaleidoscope  presenting 
new  pictures,  wherever  you  may  be,  each  more  fascinat- 
ing than  the  one  that  preceded  it. 

"Seek  and  ye  shall  find"  is  a  promise  with  a  condition 
attached  to  it.  You  have  to  look  before  you  see.  An 
effort  of  the  will  is  required.  Without  that  effort,  im- 
pressions are  false  or  transitory  or  give  no  reaction  that 
sinks  deep.  We  passed  close  to  Messina  just  after  the 
earthquake.  The  captain  of  our  ship  obligingly  slowed 
down  to  quarter-speed.  Passengers  crowded  against 
the  rail  on  the  Sicilian  side  of  the  straits. 

"Why,  Messina  is  all  right!"  someone  cried.  "The 
newspapers  have  been  exaggerating  again." 

"Wait,"  suggested  a  lawyer.  He  got  out  his  opera 
glasses.  Others  did  the  same.  As  we  studied  Messina 
from  the  sea,  and  looked  for  the  deep  fissures,  the 

134 


WALKS  AT  NIGHTFALL 

crumbling  walls,  we  found  them  all  along  the  coast. 
The  American  soldier  who  told  me,  "Since  I  been  in 
France  I  ain't  seen  nothing  but  kilometres  and  rain," 
was  not  looking  for  anything  else. 

Strolling  after  dark  helps  to  bring  into  the  fore- 
ground the  human  element  in  the  picture  of  Paris 
streets.  Your  field  of  vision  is  limited.  You  do  not 
see  too  many  things  at  once.  And  you  have  to  keep 
your  eyes  open.  Many  a  quaint  corner,  many  a  build- 
ing, is  less  often  missed  at  nightfall  than  during  the 
day. 

Paris  is  divided  into  arrondissements,  each  one  with 
its  local  administration,  its  maire,  its  mairie,  its  postal 
service,  and  its  police.  The  postal  authorities  have 
tried  in  vain  to  insist  upon  the  placing  of  the  arrondisse- 
ment  indication  upon  the  letters.  But  they  have  never 
had  much  success.  It  is  enough  to  remember  where 
your  friends  live  without  having  to  keep  in  mind  twenty 
different  arrondissements !  Before  the  war  your  arron- 
dissement  meant  little  to  you,  and  you  often  did  not 
know  its  number  if  you  wanted  to  be  married,  to  register 
the  birth  of  a  new  baby,  or  got  into  difficulties  with  the 
police.  Since  the  war,  residents  in  Paris  came  to  know 
their  own  arrondissements  because  of  bread  tickets, 
passports,  income-tax  declarations  and  other  annoy- 
ances. But  in  planning  your  walks  at  nightfall,  it  is 
helpful  to  take  a  map  of  Paris  and  know  something 
about  the  divisions  of  the  city.  We  started  our  ex- 

135 


PARIS  VISTAS 

plorations  by  hazard,  and  then  found  to  our  astonish- 
ment that  we  had  been  going  from  one  arrondissement 
to  another,  practically  following  the  numerical  order. 

The  Bibliotheque  Nationale  is  just  on  the  border  be- 
tween the  First  and  Second  Arrondissements.  Arron- 
dissements  One  to  Four  are  the  old  city  on  the  Rive 
Droite  between  the  Grands  Boulevards  and  the  Seine. 
Arrondissements  Five  to  Seven  include  similar  quarters 
on  the  Rive  Gauche.  Some  of  the  most  interesting 
strolls  are  in  the  outer  arrondissements.  But  the  seven 
inner  arrondissements  provide  enough  for  years  without 
ever  having  to  take  the  subway  or  tram. 

The  four  Rive  Droite  arrondissements  stretch  from 
the  Place  de  la  Concorde  to  the  Place  de  la  Bastille, 
and  include  the  He  de  la  Cite  and  the  He  Saint-Louis. 
The  three  Rive  Gauche  arrondissements  stretch  from 
the  Eiffel  Tower  to  the  Jardin  des  Plantes.  On  the 
Rive  Droite  the  Place  de  1'Opera  and  the  Place  de  la 
Republique,  and  on  the  Rive  Gauche  the  Place  de 
Breteuil  and  the  Place  de  PObservatoire,  are  the  outer 
corners  of  the  inner  arrondissements.  The  Boulevard 
de  Sebastopol  on  the  Rive  Droite  and  the  Boulevard 
Saint-Michel  on  the  Rive  Gauche  form  the  only 
straight  route,  cutting  through  the  mass  of  tangled 
streets  of  succeeding  centuries.  Running  north  and 
south,  this  central  line  divides  the  arrondissements  as 
the  Seine  does,  running  east  and  west. 

I  have  a  horror  of  guide-books,  partly  because  I  do 

136 


WALKS  AT  NIGHTFALL 

not  know  how  to  use  them  (I  never  have  learned!) 
and  partly  because  I  love  to  find  my  way  without  pre- 
meditation and  by  accident.  But  many  of  my  readers 
will  never  have  the  same  opportunity  I  have  enjoyed  of 
discovering  fascinating  spots  at  nightfall.  Why 
should  I  resist  the  temptation  of  indicating  some  of 
the  strolls  that  make  the  late  winter  afternoons 
delectable1? 

Everyone  knows  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  as  far  as  the 
Oratoire  or  perhaps  to  the  Tour  Saint-Jacques.  At  the 
crossing  of  the  Boulevard  Sebastopol,  the  Rue  de  Rivoli 
leaves  the  familiar  heart  of  Paris  and  enters  the  Fourth 
Arrondissement.  It  becomes  the  Rue  Saint-Antoine  a 
couple  of  blocks  before  the  Eglise  Saint-Paul.  There 
the  first  break  in  the  straight  line  from  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde  occurs.  You  deflect  a  little  bit  to  the  right, 
and  before  you  is  the  Bastille  column.  The  Rue  de 
Rivoli  and  the  Rue  Saint-Antoine  are  the  main  artery 
of  the  Fourth  Arrondissement.  No  quarter  of  Paris 
affords  more  variety  in  walks  at  nightfall.  Starting 
from  the  Boulevard  de  Sebastopol,  the  streets  on  the 
left,  at  angles  and  parallel  to  the  main  artery,  are  a 
labyrinth.  Here  is  the  Ghetto  in  a  setting  incompar- 
ably more  picturesque  than  the  Ghettos  of  London  and 
New  York.  I  doubt  if  even  the  oldest  Paris  cocker 
finds  his  way  here  unerringly.  Through  some  of  the 
streets  no  carriage  can  pass.  The  narrowest  street  in 
Paris,  the  Rue  de  Venise,  is  here.  Beginning  opposite 

137 


PARIS  VISTAS 

the  Hotel  de  Ville,  the  Rue  du  Temple  cuts  through  the 
Ghetto  all  the  way  to  the  Place  de  la  Republique. 
Then  come  the  equally  interesting  right-angle  streets, 
the  Rue  des  Archives  and  the  Rue  Vieille  du  Temple. 
On  the  latter  faces  the  Imprimerie  Nationale.  And  do 
not  miss  the  parallel  streets,  Rue  de  la  Verrerie,  Rue  du 
Roi  de  Sicile,  Rue  Sainte-Croix  de  la  Bretonne,  Rue 
des  Rosiers.  Further  along  (now  we  are  in  the  Rue 
Saint-Antoine)  the  Rue  de  Birague  leads  one  short 
block  into  the  Place  des  Vosges,  one  of  the  rare  bits 
remaining  of  Paris  of  Henri  IV. 

On  the  right  hand  side  we  have  the  Hotel  de  Ville, 
the  old  buildings  behind  the  Lyce  Charlemagne  and  the 
Quai  des  Celestins.  Several  bridges  cross  to  the  lie  de 
la  Cite  and  the  He  Saint-Louis.  The  Pont  Saint-Louis 
connects  the  two  islands.  There  is  nothing  more  won- 
derful in  Paris  than  to  cross  the  Pont  Sully  from  the 
eastern  end  of  the  Quai  des  Celestins,  walk  through  the 
Rue  Saint-Louis-en-lTle,  and  come  suddenly  upon  the 
apse  of  Notre  Dame,  protected  by  its  flying  buttresses. 

In  the  Second  Arrondissement,  start  from  the  Place 
des  Victoires  at  the  end  of  the  Rue  des  Petits-Champs, 
and  find  your  way  through  the  various  tortuous  routes 
that  bring  you  out  on  the  Grands  Boulevards  to  the 
Boulevard  Poissonniere,  the  Boulevard  Bonne-Nouvelle 
and  the  Boulevard  Saint-Denis.  A  few  hundred  feet 
from  the  Grands  Boulevards,  to  the  right  of  the  Rue 
Saint-Denis,  as  you  go  toward  the  river,  Paris  of  the 

138 


WALKS  AT  NIGHTFALL 

Revolution  remains  in  almost  as  full  measure  as  in  the 
Sixth  Arrondissement. 

We  must  not  leave  the  Rive  Droite  without  mention- 
ing two  walks  at  nightfall  in  the  outer  arrondissement. 
From  the  Place  de  la  Republique,  the  most  interesting 
glimpse  of  a  crowded  workingmen's  quarter  can  be 
gained  in  an  hour  by  walking  up  the  Rue  du  Faubourg 
du  Temple,  which  becomes  the  Rue  de  Belleville. 
There  is  a  steep  climb  until  you  reach  the  Eglise  Saint- 
Jean-Baptiste.  To  the  right  is  Menilmontant,  domi- 
nating the  famous  Pere-Lachaise  cemetery,  and  to  the 
left  you  can  climb  still  farther  to  Buttes-Chaumont. 
The  second  walk  is  along  the  Quai  de  Jemmapes,  which 
you  reach  by  turning  to  the  left  from  the  Rue  du  Fau- 
bourg du  Temple  just  after  crossing  the  canal.  A  few 
blocks  up,  on  the  right,  through  the  Rue  Grange  aux 
Belles  you  pass  the  Hopital  Saint-Louis,  a  group  of 
seventeenth-century  buildings  which  continue  to  do 
blessed  work  in  the  twentieth  century. 

Dear  me !  I  have  forgotten  Montmartre,  where  you 
climb  endless  flights  of  stone  steps  and  find — despite 
the  tourist  reclame — probably  more  of  old  Paris  than 
in  any  other  part  of  the  city. 

On  the  Rive  Gauche,  the  walks  at  nightfall  are  more 
difficult  to  indicate.  You  can  go  anywhere  in  the  three 
inner  arrondissements,  and  you  will  not  be  disap- 
pointed. Walk  year  after  year  and  you  will  begin  to 
wonder  whether  you  ever  will  follow  out  the  oft- 

139 


PARIS  VISTAS 

formed  resolution  of  returning  to  America  to  live.  In 
the  Seventh  Arrondissement  the  region  between  the 
Quai  d'Orsay  and  the  Rue  de  Sevres,  the  Rue  des 
Saints-Peres  and  the  Invalides  is  the  Faubourg  Saint- 
Germain,  where  are  to  be  found  the  finest  residences 
in  Paris,  far  ahead  of  anything  in  the  Etoile  Quarter. 
But  unless  you  are  lucky  enough  to  have  the  entree  to 
aristocratic  and  diplomatic  Paris,  you  can  only  guess 
at  the  beauty  of  the  gardens  whose  trees  thrust  alluring 
limbs  over  high  walls  and  at  what  is  behind  the  stately 
portals  of  the  hotels. 

In  the  Sixth  Arrondissement  the  Boulevard  Saint- 
Germain  and  the  Rue  de  Vaugirard  are  the  best 
streets  to  take  as  guides  in  your  wanderings.  Between 
the  boulevard  and  the  river,  and  between  the  boulevard 
and  the  Rue  de  Vaugirard,  most  of  the  streets  are  thor- 
oughfares, a  swarming  mass  of  autos  and  wagons  and 
push-carts,  between  five  and  seven. 

What  shall  I  say  of  the  Fifth  Arrondissement,  most 
fascinating  of  all  to  me  because  I  know  it  best  at  night- 
fall, I  suppose?  My  favorite  nightfall  walk  in  Paris 
is  behind  the  Pantheon.  Start  at  the  Place  Maubert, 
on  the  Boulevard  Saint-Germain,  climb  the  Rue  da  la 
Mont  Sainte-Genevieve.  Turn  to  the  left  through  the 
Rue  Descartes,  and  you  will  find  yourself  in  the  Rue 
Mouffetord.  Here  you  are  as  far  from  modern  Paris 
as  you  will  ever  get.  You  walk  for  nearly  a  mile  with 
no  interruption  of  trams  and  omnibuses.  No  taxi  cab 

140 


WALKS  AT  NIGHTFALL 

or  truck  would  dream  of  using  the  Rue  Mouffetard  as  a 
thoroughfare.  And  yet,  on  the  Rue  Mouffetard,  to  eat 
and  drink  and  dress  yourself  and  furnish  your  house, 
you  can  buy  all  you  need.  You  do  not  have  to  hunt 
for  it:  it  is  displayed  before  your  eyes.  The  Rue 
Mouffetard.  Here  you  are  as  far  from  modern  Paris 
time,  and  I  might  shrink  from  some  of  the  foodstuffs, 
if  not  all,  it  offers,  were  I  to  buy  by  sunlight.  But  by 
flickering  torch-light  the  Rue  Mouffetard  is  Araby  to 
me.  And  I  never  come  out  at  the  Avenue  des  Gobelins 
without  a  sigh.  Why  is  n't  the  Rue  Mouffetard  just  a 
bit  longer? 


141 


CHAPTER  XIV 

AFTER-DINNER    COFFEE 

A  VISITOR  once  asked  me  how  it  was  possible  for 
Paris  to  maintain  so  many  cafes,  and  said  how 
distressing  it  was  to  see  so  many  women  in  them  and 
there  was  more  drinking  than  in  New  York  or  London 
— question  and  inferences  all  in  one  breath,  just  like 
my  sentence.  My  friend  was  bewildered  because  he 
did  not  understand  the  raison  d'etre  of  the  cafe  in 
French  life.  He  thought  that  a  cafe  was  a  place  to 
drink  according  to  the  American  notion  of  drinking. 
The  women  were  bad  women  in  his  eyes  and  the  men 
on  the  downward  path.  To  one  who  holds  this  curious 
notion  the  number  of  cafes  in  Paris  and  the  crowds  in 
them  and  at  the  little  tables  in  front  of  them  are  inex- 
plicable and  alarming.  Cafes,  restaurants,  brasseries 
and  zincs  line  the  boulevards,  and  there  are  at  least  two 
or  three  to  a  block  in  every  street.  Owing  to  the 
intensive  apartment  house  life  shops  of  all  kinds  are 
more  frequent  in  Paris  than  elsewhere,  but  you  may 
have  to  walk  to  get  anything  you  want.  To  drink  or 
eat,  no.  The  place  is  right  under  your  nose. 

All  restaurants  serve  drinks.     I  know  of  only  one 

142 


AFTER-DINNER  COFFEE 

non-alcoholic  restaurant  in  Paris :  that  is  the  vegetarian 
place  on  the  Rue  Notre-Dame-des-Champs !  If  you 
did  not  eat  in  a  "drinking-place,"  you  'd  pretty  soon 
starve.  Many  of  the  big  cafes  do  not  serve  food. 
Some  have  one  dish,  called  the  plat  du  jour,  with  cheese 
and  fruit  afterwards.  Others  have  oysters  and  snails 
and  their  own  specialites.  Others,  while  not  advertis- 
ing meals,  serve  a  table  d'hote  or  a  very  limited  a  la 
carte.  In  all,  however,  hot  coffee  is  to  be  had  at  all 
hours  and  every  kind  of  a  drink  is  on  tap.  The  zincs 
are  little  bits  of  places  where  you  get  hot  coffee,  beer 
or  a  petit  verre.  Coal  and  wood  merchants  also  serve 
alcohol.  In  the  more  humble  streets  (which  are  to 
found  in  every  quarter),  cafes  are  dirty  stuffy  places, 
known  as  debits.  Rare  is  the  "drinking-place"  that  has 
not  its  terrasse.  This  may  be  only  a  chair  or  two  and  a 
single  table  on  the  side-walk. 

The  terrasses  of  restaurants  as  well  as  of  cafes  are 
maintained  throughout  the  winter.  It  is  a  familiar 
sight  to  see  a  table-cloth  flapping  in  the  wind,  held 
down  by  a  salt-cellar  and  a  mustard-pot.  The  days 
are  few  that  you  cannot  sit  out.  It  does  not  get  very 
cold  in  Paris  and  an  awning  protects  you  from  the  rain. 
In  some  of  the  boulevard  cafes  the  terrasses  are  actually 
heated  by  stoves ! 

The  Paris  cafe  is  wholly  different  from  the  American 
saloon.  None  thinks  it  is  wrong  to  drink  in  France. 
Total  abstinence  is  a  funny  American  idea  to  our 

143 


PARIS  VISTAS 

friends  overseas.  Taking  a  drink  in  public  is  as  natural 
as  putting  your  arm  around  your  girl  in  public.  Every- 
body does  it.  You  rarely  see  a  drunken  man  or  woman 
just  as  you  rarely  see  poverty.  Alcoholism  (by  which 
is  meant  poisoning  the  system  and  breaking  down  the 
health  by  excessive  use  of  alcohol)  is  an  evil  France 
has  to  combat  as  much  as  any  other  country.  But  the 
French  have  never  had  it  preached  to  them  that  the 
evil  can  be  overcome  by  prohibiting  the  use  of  wines 
and  liquors  or  by  the  example  of  a  part  of  the  com- 
munity voluntarily  abstaining  for  the  sake  of  weaker 
brothers.  The  anti-alcohol  movement  in  France  does 
exist.  As  the  maintenance  of  war  legislation  against 
absinthe  and  kindred  spirits  proves,  it  has  public  opinion 
behind  it.  But  the  connotation  of  alcoholic  is  limited 
in  France.  The  Gallic  sense  of  proportion  prevents 
the  French  from  extremes  in  anything.  Since  they  do 
not  drink  to  excess,  they  have  no  reason  for  regarding 
beer  and  wines  as  alcohol.  Often  your  French  friends 
tell  you  that  they  never  touch  alcohol.  In  the  same 
breath  they  offer  you  delicious  wine. 

Scruples  understood  and  appreciated  in  America  are 
often  meaningless  when  you  live  in  another  country. 
Stick  to  your  white  ribbon  principles  if  you  will,  but  do 
not  persist  in  your  notion  that  cafes  are  places  where  it 
is  not  respectable  to  be  seen.  Why  cut  yourself  off 
from  an  indispensable  feature  of  Paris  life1? 

The  hour  of  the  aperitif  finds  the  terrasses  of  the 

144 


The  Pantheon  from  the  Rue  Soufflot 


AFTER-DINNER  COFFEE 

cafes  crowded.  You  may  have  difficulty  in  getting  a 
place  outside.  Having  worked  all  day  and  perhaps 
having  walked  home,  the  Parisian  saves  a  half  hour 
before  dinner  for  his  appetizer.  He  sits  at  the  little 
table  in  front  of  his  favorite  cafe  and  watches  the  pass- 
ing crowd.  It  is  no  hastily  swallowed  cocktail,  leaning 
against  a  bar  and  shut  off  from  eyes  like  mine  by  a 
swinging  screen  door.  It  is  no  prerogative  of  man. 
Sometimes  on  week  days  and  always  on  Sundays,  his 
wife  and  children  are  with  him. 

When  we  were  living  in  the  Rue  Servandoni,  we  got 
into  the  habit  of  going  out  for  our  after-dinner  coffee. 
The  reason  was  probably  the  same  as  that  of  most 
Parisians.  Living  quarters  were  small.  The  baby 
was  asleep  in  the  front  room.  Toward  the  end  of  the 
month  especially  we  were  not  always  in  a  position  to 
keep  the  tiny  dining-room  fire  replenished  all  evening. 
We  thought  of  the  gas  bill.  We  liked  to  get  a  little 
air.  We  were  fond  of  music.  Arm  in  arm  we  would 
walk  along  the  Rue  Vaugirard  to  the  BouP  Miche. 
From  the  Closerie  des  Lilas  near  the  Observatoire  to  the 
river  you  had  plenty  of  choice  for  your  after-dinner 
coffee.  At  the  foot  of  the  Rue  Soufflot  is  the  Cafe  du 
Pantheon.  On  the  corner  of  the  Rue  de  la  Sorbonne  is 
the  Cafe  d'Harcourt.  Just  off  the  boulevard,  on  the 
Rue  de  1'Ecole  de  Medecine,  is  the  Taverne  Pascal. 
These  were  our  favorites.  Pascal  has  no  terrasse. 
We  went  there  when  it  rained  or  when  we  thought  of 

145 


PARIS  VISTAS 

Munich  beer.  Harcourt  used  to  have  a  red-coated 
orchestra,  and  was  the  gayest  place  on  the  Boulevard 
Saint-Michel.  At  the  Pantheon  you  paid  two  sous 
more,  but  the  coffee  was  better.  We  never  had  to  spend 
more  than  a  franc  for  the  two  of  us.  A  checker-board 
or  cards  could  be  had  of  the  waiter.  If  you  wanted  to 
write  letters,  you  asked  for  a  blotter  and  pen  and  ink. 

Just  around  the  corner  from  us,  on  the  Rue  de 
Tournon,  was  the  Concerts-Rouges,  the  blessed  institu- 
tion to  make  unnecessary  the  tragedy  of  would-be  musi- 
cian and  singer  failing  to  get  a  hearing.  Pianists, 
violinists,  cellists  and  future  opera  stars  had  a  place  to 
put  on  their  own  concerts  at  little  cost.  We  were  the 
audience.  Of  course  it  was  not  all  amateurs:  the 
management  had  to  promise  an  audience.  A  good  or- 
chestra gathered  around  the  stove  in  the  middle  of  the 
room.  You  sat  in  a  chair  such  as  they  have  in  school 
rooms,  whose  right  arm  spread  out  generously  to  give 
space  for  your  notebook.  There  was  room,  too,  for 
coffee-cup  or  stein.  The  only  rule  of  the  Concerts- 
Rouges  was  silence.  You  could  move  your  chair  away 
from  the  music.  When  you  were  not  interested  in  the 
number,  you  read  or  wrote.  Many  theses  and  dramas 
and  poems  have  been  worked  out  in  the  Concerts- 
Rouges. 

The  Boulevard  du  Montparnasse,  which  has  since 
become  our  home,  was  not  too  far  from  the  Rue  Ser- 
vandoni  to  be  frequented  for  after-dinner  coffee.  The 

146 


AFTER-DINNER  COFFEE 

Dome,  on  the  corner  of  the  Boulevard  Raspail,  and 
Versailles  and  Lavenue,  opposite  the  Gare  Mont- 
parnasse,  were  after-dinner  coffee  haunts  where  friend- 
ships that  have  lasted  through  the  years  were  formed. 
We  still  sit  there.  Lavenue,  after  five  years  of  silence, 
again  offers  music.  But  we  miss  Schumacker,  beloved 
of  the  Quarter,  who  fell,  they  say,  in  the  ranks  of  the 
enemy.  His  face  is  one  of  those  I  cannot  forget.  I  see 
him  now,  blue  eyes  and  bright  smile  and  bushy  hair, 
bending  over  his  violin  on  the  little  platform  by  the 
piano.  He  seemed  to  play  his  heart  out  and  never 
tired.  I  always  like  to  write  my  letters  at  Lavenue. 
When  I  called  for  "de  quoi  ecrire"  the  waiter  brought  a 
tiny  bottle  of  ink,  spillable  and  square,  sheets  of  ruled 
writing  paper  and  the  cheapest  quality  of  manila  envel- 
opes in  a  black  oilcloth  folder,  whose  blotter  never 
blotted.  But  you  did  not  care.  You  listened  to  the 
music  after  each  page  until  it  dried. 


CHAPTER  XV 

REPOS    HEBDOMADAIRE 

IN  Philadelphia  you  still  find  shutters  with  the  rings 
at  the  middle  of  their  closing  edge.  To  one  of  the 
rings  is  tied  a  piece  of  tape.  In  my  grandfather's 
house  of  a  Sunday  the  shutters  were  together  almost  to 
the  touching  point  and  held  that  way  by  the  tape  tied 
to  the  other  ring.  A  vertical  bar  of  sunshine  filtered 
through  the  slit.  The  parlor  was  cool  and  quiet. 
Nothing  moved.  My  father  told  me  that  when  he  was 
a  little  boy  he  had  to  sit  at  one  of  those  windows  all 
Sunday  afternoon  memorizing  passages  from  the  Bible. 
I  wonder  if  in  America  there  are  still  many  families 
who  install  in  their  children  a  repugnance  for  the  Scrip- 
tures by  this  sort  of  torture,  whose  observance  of  Sun- 
day is  reached  by  a  process  of  elimination  of  everything 
a  normal  person  would  instinctively  choose  to  do  on  a 
day  of  rest,  and  where  there  are  more  don'ts  for  the 
children  on  Sunday  than  on  Monday.  Sunday  seems 
to  me  a  happier  day  in  America  now  than  it  was  twenty- 
five  years  ago.  But  for  all  that  we  do  not  enjoy  it  the 
way  the  French  do.  Until  I  lived  in  France  I  never 
knew  the  full  meaning  of  what  I  was  singing  in  the 
hymn,  "O  day  of  rest  and  gladness." 

148 


REPOS  HEBDOMADAIRE 

The  French  dress  up  for  Sunday  as  we  do.  I  sup- 
pose as  large  a  proportion  of  the  Parisians  go  to  church 
as  of  Americans  in  any  large  city.  But  once  mass  is 
over  the  day  is  given  to  recreation — and  recreation  out 
of  doors.  What  is  more  depressing  than  an  English  or 
American  city  on  Sunday?  Sunday  in  Paris  is  the  most 
animated  day  of  the  week.  The  French  word  endi- 
manche  is  translated  in  dictionaries  "in  Sunday  best." 
It  has  a  wider  connotation.  A  place  as  well  as  a  per- 
son can  be  endimanche '.  The  word  brings  up  to  the 
mind  of  one  who  has  lived  in  Paris  crowds,  laughter, 
fun,  open  air.  How  different  from  sitting  on  a  chair 
in  a  room  with  bowed  shutters  when  common  sense 
would  dictate  getting  your  lungs  filled  with  fresh  air 
and  worshipping  God  in  communion  with  nature ! 

In  the  Rue  Servandoni  days  we  came  to  know  the  joy 
and  benefit  of  the  Continental  Sunday.  And  ever  since 
we  have  brought  up  our  children  to  look  forward  to 
Sunday  as  the  best  day  of  the  week,  the  out-of-doors 
day,  when  the  family  could  be  together  from  morning 
to  night. 

The  great  thing  about  Sunday  in  Paris  is  that 
fathers  and  mothers  and  children  go  out  together,  all 
bound  for  the  same  place,  and  stick  together.  The 
family  includes  grandfathers  and  grandmothers,  who 
are  always  given  the  best  places  in  the  train,  the  choicest 
morsels  to  eat  and  who  to  the  day  of  their  death  are  the 
adored  center  of  the  family  party.  Mother  carries  the 

149 


PARIS  VISTAS 

filet,  a  big  net  with  handles  filled  with  good  things  to 
eat,  and  the  baby  too  small  to  navigate  alone  is  held 
in  father's  strong  arms.  You  can  tell  little  sisters — 
and  even  big  ones — for  they  are  dressed  alike.  Trams 
and  trains  for  Versailles,  the  Bois  de  Bologne,  Saint- 
Germain-en-Laye  and  a  dozen  other  equally  attractive 
suburbs  are  not  taken  by  assault.  The  family  waits  in 
line  at  the  tram  station,  young  and  old  clutching  the 
precious  little  tickets  that  tell  them  when  it  is  their 
turn  to  get  places.  Everybody  has  his  chance,  and 
there  is  no  need  to  worry  about  grandmother  or  the 
baby.  Trams  are  not  overcrowded :  there  are  seats  for 
all.  If  there  is  not  the  money  to  go  far  from  home,  or 
if  the  weather  is  too  threatening,  each  quarter  has  its 
park,  the  Luxembourg,  Montsouris,  Monceau,  Buttes- 
Chaumont,  Jardin  des  Plants,  Vincennes,  or  the  simple 
squares.  For  two  cents  you  have  the  right  to  sit  on 
chairs  near  the  band-stand.  First  come,  first  served. 
The  only  restriction  here  is  that  baby-carriages  must 
stay  outside  of  the  enclosure  for  music-lovers.  In  the 
baby-carriage  zone,  nobody  minds  if  a  baby  howls :  you 
may  be  in  the  same  condition  at  the  next  minute. 

Merry-go-rounds,  Punch  and  Judy,  swings  and 
donkey-carts  are  everywhere  to  be  found  for  the  chil- 
dren. At  four  o'clock  the  woman  with  fresh  rolls  goes 
by.  Hot  gaufrette  and  hokey-pokey  venders  are  al- 
ways near  at  hand.  If  you  do  not  want  hokey-pokey, 
there  is  coco  to  drink.  The  innocent  Sunday  fun  is  not 

150 


REPOS  HEBDOMADAIRE 

"the  kind  of  thing  no-one  would  think  of  doing." 
Once  I  was  waiting  for  the  wife  of  a  professor  of  the 
Ecole  de  Guerre,  who  was  later  a  brilliant  general  on 
the  Marne.  It  was  Sunday  afternoon.  She  excused 
herself  for  being  late.  "I  stopped  in  the  square  to 
listen  to  the  band,  and  I  had  to  have  some  coco.  I 
never  can  pass  a  coco  cart,"  she  explained.  More  than 
once  have  I  seen  a  mother,  elegantly  dressed,  come 
hurrying  to  the  garden,  sit  down  on  a  bench,  and  nurse 
a  baby  handed  to  her  by  a  nurse  in  cap  and  ribbons.  I 
have  done  that  myself.  Is  there  anything  shocking 
about  this?  It  is  the  natural  out-of-doors  instinct. 
Distinguished  looking  gentlemen  wearing  rosettes  of 
the  Legion  of  Honor  head  family  excursions.  They  do 
not  mind  pushing  baby-carriages,  either. 

On  a  good  day  the  Seine  boats  are  crowded.  From 
Charenton  to  Saint-Cloud,  there  is  an  endless  procession 
of  boats  on  a  Sunday.  Parisians  never  tire  of  the 
spectacle  of  their  city  from  the  river.  They  name  the 
bridges  as  they  pass  under  them  and  tell  their  stories 
to  the  children.  River  clubs  abound,  and  all  Paris 
seems  afloat  in  row-boats  and  canoes.  From  one  end 
of  the  city  to  the  other  the  banks  of  the  Seine  are  lined 
with  fishermen  who  seem  never  to  become  discouraged. 
Seine  boating  is  not  without  its  dangers.  But  in  the 
Bois  de  Bologne  the  most  inexperienced  learn  to  row 
and  paddle  in  the  shallow  water  of  the  lakes.  A  minia- 
ture railway  crosses  a  corner  of  the  Bois  from  the  Porte 


PARIS  VISTAS 

Maillot  to  the  Jardin  d'Acclimatation,  where  kiddies 
can  ride  on  elephants  and  camels  or  be  drawn  by 
ostriches  and  zebras. 

No  park  is  too  small  to  have  its  ducks  and  swans  with 
unlimited  capacity  for  bread-crumbs,  its  band-stand,  its 
open-air  restaurant  where  drinks  are  served  and  you 
bring  your  own  food,  and  its  place  without  grass  where 
you  can  stretch  your  own  tennis-net  between  trees. 

The  Seine  boats,  the  subway,  and  many  tram  lines 
land  you  at  the  foot  of  the  Eiffel  Tower.  An  elevator 
quickly  takes  you  above  Paris  for  a  view  that  was 
unique  before  the  days  of  aeroplanes.  Near  by  is  the 
Great  Wheel,  always  revolving  from  morning  to  night 
on  Sundays.  Parisians  do  not  feel  the  lack  of  the 
roofs  of  skyscrapers  when  they  want  to  look  down  on 
their  city. 

For  several  hundred  yards  around  the  fortifications 
of  Paris  the  law  forbids  the  erection  of  permanent 
buildings :  at  least,  if  you  do  build  in  stone  and  mortar, 
you  risk  having  your  house  destroyed,  as  many  found 
to  their  cost  in  1914.  This  enormous  land  surface, 
between  the  city  and  suburbs  is  covered  with  wooden 
shacks  of  rag-pickers  and  junk-dealers.  Everyone 
seems  to  have  a  very  small  holding,  as  the  ground  is  of 
little  value  either  for  residential  or  manufacturing  pur- 
poses. Here  thousands  of  Parisians  own  cabins  and 
have  miniature  vegetable  gardens,  which  they  cultivate 
on  Sunday,  dreaming  of  the  day  when  there  will  be 

152 


REPOS  HEBDOMADAIRE 

enough  money  in  the  bank  to  retire  permanently  to 
some  quiet  country  spot.  They  come  home  with  arms 
filled  with  vegetables  and  flowers. 

In  the  year  at  the  Rue  Servandoni  Herbert  and  I 
started  to  explore  on  Sundays  the  banlieue  of  Paris. 
Despite  increasing  "encumbrances"  of  different  ages, 
we  have  managed  to  keep  up  our  delightful  excursions 
from  early  spring  to  chestnut  time,  and  often  on  winter 
Sundays.  But  we  do  not  pretend  to  have  exhausted 
in  ten  years  the  possibilities  of  Sunday  afternoons. 
We  are  always  discovering  new  excursions  for  the  repos 
hebdomadaire. 


153 


CHAPTER  XVI 

"  MANY    WATERS    CANNOT    QUENCH    LOVE  " 

HIGHER  than  1883;  higher  than  1879;  higher 
than  1876;  higher  than  1802;  higher  than  1740; 
higher  than  1699;  equalling  the  flood  of  1658,  the  worst 
in  the  history  of  Paris;  finally  breaking  all  records, 
both  as  to  height  attained  and  as  to  damage  done,  such 
was  the  daily  crescendo  of  the  press  in  recording  the 
progress  of  la  Grande  Crue  during  the  last  week  of 
January,  1910.  No  investing  army,  no  Commune,  no 
revolution,  threatened  Paris  this  time.  The  best  friend 
of  Paris  had  turned  against  her.  For  several  days  the 
older  generation,  who  passed  through  the  trials  of  1871, 
recalled  painful  memories  and  feared  a  worse  peril 
from  the  Seine  than  from  the  German  invaders  or  the 
Internationalists. 

In  the  third  week  of  January,  from  Tuesday  to  Fri- 
day, we  were  concerned  over  the  news  of  devastation 
wrought  by  floods  in  different  parts  of  France.  There 
was  much  damage  and  suffering  in  our  own  suburbs. 
Sympathetic  editorials  appeared  in  the  newspapers :  re- 
lief funds  were  opened.  On  Friday  afternoon,  when 
we  were  taking  a  walk  along  the  quais  of  the  Rive 
Gauche,  we  had  no  suspicion  what  was  going  to  happen. 

154 


"MANY  WATERS  CANNOT  QUENCH  LOVE" 

Only  on  Saturday  did  Paris  begin  to  worry  for  herself. 
Neuilly  and  Courbevoie  were  flooded.  Loroy  reported 
ten  drowned.  The  Seine,  within  the  city  limits,  sud- 
denly rose  ten  feet.  The  first  subway  tunnel,  that  of 
the  "Metro"  from  the  Chatelet  under  the  Cite  to  the 
Place  Saint-Michel,  was  filled  with  water.  The  river 
spread  into  the  original  "Metro"  line  under  the  Rue  de 
Rivoli.  The  second  tunnel,  that  of  the  "Nord-Sud," 
was  an  easy  prey  because  it  was  still  in  the  course  of 
construction.  The  Gare  d'Orleans  was  invaded.  Its 
tracks,  which  parallel  the  left  bank  of  the  river  under 
the  quais,  disappeared.  The  Gare  d'Invalides,  whose 
line  runs  the  opposite  direction  along  the  Seine,  was 
also  flooded. 

On  Sunday  morning  we  heard  that  in  the  Rue 
Felicien-David  people  were  rowing  around  in  boats. 
We  thought  this  interesting  enough  to  invest  in  a  fiacre, 
and  took  Scrapple  in  the  afternoon  to  Auteuil.  On  the 
way,  we  got  out  and  wormed  ourselves  through  the 
crowd  to  hear  the  waters  swishing  around  the  stair- 
cases down  to  the  train  levels  at  the  two  flooded  sta- 
tions. When  we  reached  the  Rue  Felicien-David  and 
actually  saw  people  in  boats,  we  bought  photographs 
from  an  enterprising  hawker,  wanting  to  preserve  this 
souvenir  of  Paris.  Little  did  most  of  the  crowd  dream 
that  within  a  few  days  they  would  not  have  to  go 
farther  than  their  own  front  windows  to  see  such  a 
sight ! 

155 


PARIS  VISTAS 

On  Monday  evening  everyone  realized  that  the  flood 
was  not  a  curious  spectacle  but  a  disaster.  The  river 
had  been  rising  at  the  steady  rate  of  an  inch  an  hour, 
and  by  nightfall  was  sixteen  feet  above  its  normal 
height.  Herbert  decided  to  report  the  flood.  This 
justified  a  taxi-cab  by  the  day.  As  this  was  an 
unheard-of  luxury  for  the  Gibbons  family,  which  had 
few  chances  to  ride  in  automobiles  at  that  stage  of  its 
evolution,  of  course  the  baby  and  I  decided  to  profit 
by  the  opportunity,  even  though  it  was  winter  and  not 
the  best  time  of  the  year  for  joy-rides.  Anyway,  I 
was  interested  in  the  great  drama  that  was  being 
enacted,  and  we  could  tell  Scrappie  about  it  later. 
From  notes  taken  at  the  time,  I  am  able  to  reconstruct 
the  story  of  days  as  stirring  as  any  of  those  during  the 
Great  War. 

On  Monday  afternoon  we  went  up  and  down  the 
quais.  All  the  river  industries,  with  their  wooden 
buildings  squatting  on  the  river  bank  under  the  shelter 
of  the  solid  ramparts  of  the  quais,  were  swept  away. 
Freight  and  customs  stations  and  depots  came  within 
the  grasp  of  the  river.  At  the  Entrepot  de  Bercy  and 
the  Halle  aux  Vins,  barrels  of  the  spirits  and  wine  were 
first  gently  floated  and  then  drawn  out  into  the  angry 
stream.  The  water  in  the  Nord-Sud  tunnel  was 
threatening  the  Gare  Saint-Lazare.  The  Eiffel  Tower 
moved  slightly.1  The  cellars  of  the  public  buildings 

i  My  critic  says  this  is  not  true.    He  did  not  see  it,  and  he  does  n't 

156 


"MANY  WATERS  CANNOT  QUENCH  LOVE" 

along  the  river  front — Palais  de  Justice,  Chambre  de 
Deputes,  Hotel  de  Ville,  Monnaie,  Institut,  Chancel- 
lerie  de  la  Legion  d'Honneur,  Grand  Palais,  Louvre — 
were  gradually  flooded  until  their  furnishings  were  ex- 
tinguished. At  Billancourt  we  saw  the  inundation  of 
the  Renault  automobile  works  and  the  Voisin  aeroplane 
factory.  The  effect  of  the  latter  disaster  reached  as  far 
as  Heliopolis  in  Egypt,  where  an  Aviation  Week  was 
scheduled.  In  those  days  aeroplanes  were  in  their  in- 
fancy and  depended  upon  a  single  factory  for  their 
motors. 

Tuesday  morning  a  heavy  snow  was  falling. 
Awakened  early  by  an  explosion,  we  thought  that  the 
Pont  de  PAlma  was  being  blown  up.  This  heroic 
measure  had  in  fact  been  contemplated  by  the  city  en- 
gineers in  order  to  prevent  the  backing  up  of  the  water 
into  the  Champs-Elysees  district.  The  flood  was 
rapidly  gaining  street  after  street  in  Auteuil  and 
Charenton.  A  rumor  was  afloat  that  we  would  soon 
be  cut  off  from  the  outside  world.  This  meant  a  run 
on  provisions  and  profiteering  by  shopkeepers.  We 
yielded  to  the  common  impulse  and  laid  in  kerosene  and 
potatoes  for  ourselves  and  condensed  milk  for  Scrappie, 

think  it  is  possible  that  the  Tower  would  have  remained  standing,  if 
it  had  moved  during  the  flood  of  1910.  But  I  find  this  statement  in 
my  notes.  Why  shouldn't  the  Eiffel  Tower  move?  I  reminded  my 
critic  that  we  had  seen  together  on  our  honeymoon  at  Pisa  a  tower 
that  had  been  leaning  for  centuries.  I  do  not  intend  to  cross  out 
this  statement  about  the  most  striking  landmark  of  Paris,  the  par- 
ticipant in  most  of  my  vistas. 

157 


PARIS  VISTAS 

paying  double  prices  and  thinking  we  were  lucky  in 
having  a  chance  to  buy. 

On  Wednesday  morning  commenced  what  we  re- 
garded at  the  time  as  a  real  reign  of  terror.  Under- 
ground communication  ceased.  Owing  to  the  inunda- 
tion of  their  power  houses,  electric-trams  stopped  run- 
ning. The  subway  station  at  Bercy  collapsed.  Sewers 
began  to  burst  in  all  quarters  of  the  city.  A  subter- 
ranean lake  formed  under  the  Rue  Royal  from  the 
Place  de  la  Concorde  to  the  Madeleine,  and  the  street 
was  closed  to  traffic.  In  front  of  the  Louvre  and  at  the 
Pont  de  la  Concorde  soldiers  worked  night  and  day 
raising  the  parapets  higher  and  building  barricades 
with  paving-stones  and  bags  of  cement.  By  evening 
the  water  had  reached  a  height  of  thirty  feet,  breaking 
all  records  since  1799.  Refugees  began  to  pour  into 
the  city  by  the  thousands  and  were  lodged  in  the  old 
Seminary  of  Saint-Suplice  near  us,  the  Pantheon  and 
other  public  buildings.  The  Red  Cross  began  to  be 
displayed  throughout  the  city.  Boats  and  sailors  ar- 
rived from  seaports.  The  markets  required  substantial 
police  protection  to  prevent  mobs  from  taking  them  by 
storm. 

On  Thursday  and  Friday  the  fight  against  the  ever- 
rising  waters  was  continued  with  desperate  energy. 
In  spite  of  all  that  human  skill  and  labor  could  accom- 
plish, the  Seine  pushed  its  way  over  parapets  and 
through  barricades,  flooding  rapidly  the  quais  and  ad- 

158 ' 


"MANY  WATERS  CANNOT  QUENCH  LOVE" 

joining  quarters.  By  means  of  subways  and  sewers 
(channels  opened  to  the  river  by  man's  hand  and  that 
had  not  existed  in  the  seventeenth-and-eighteenth- 
century  floods),  districts  far  from  the  river  suffered 
equally.  Auteuil,  Grenelle,  Charenton,  Bercy  were 
submerged.  On  either  side  of  the  Trocadero  the 
palatial  private  homes  of  the  quais  were  in  the  Seine  up 
to  the  second  story.  The  river  appropriated  to  itself 
the  entire  length  of  Cours-la-Reine  from  the  Pont  de 
PAlma  to  the  Pont  de  la  Concorde,  reached  the  fashion- 
able restaurants  at  the  foot  of  the  Avenue  des  Champs- 
Elysees,  and  partly  surrounded  the  two  palaces  of  Fine 
Arts,  souvenirs  of  the  Exposition  of  1900.  The  streets 
between  the  Avenue  des  Champs-Elysees  and  the  river 
formed  a  transplanted  Venice. 

Hotels  and  stores  on  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  the  Theatre 
Frangais — and  even  the  Opera — found  their  heat  and 
light  cut  off  by  the  attack  of  the  Seine.  Far  away 
from  the  quais,  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Gare  Saint- 
Lazare,  the  Seine,  following  the  subway  tunnel,  burst 
forth  into  the  Place  du  Havre  and  the  Cour  de  Rome. 
Hasty  barricades  were  of  no  avail.  One  could  hardly 
trust  his  eyes  when  he  looked  up  the  Boulevard  Hauss- 
mann  from  the  Opera  and  saw  boats  flitting  back  and 
forth  as  far  as  Saint-Augustin  and  the  Boulevard 
Malesherbes.  On  the  Rive  Gauche  the  aspect  of  Paris 
grew  even  more  alarming.  The  Esplanade  des  In- 
valides  and  the  Quai  d'Orsay  joined  the  Seine.  Sol- 

159 


PARIS  VISTAS 

diers  threw  a  pontoon  bridge  across  the  Esplanade  for 
pedestrians.  But  taxi-cabs  and  buses  were  compelled 
to  plunge  into  the  water  hub-high.  We  saw  motor- 
drawn  vehicles  stalled  because  the  water  had  reached 
their  engines,  while  the  old-fashioned  cockers  went 
merrily  by,  proud  of  their  superiority.  All  the  people 
in  fiacres  had  to  do  was  to  put  their  feet  up  on  the 
cocker's  box.  The  Chamber  of  Deputies  and  the 
Ministery  of  Foreign  Affairs  were  approachable  by 
boat.  The  angle  formed  by  the  Boulevard  Saint- 
Germain,  the  Quai  d'Orsay  and  the  Rue  du  Bac  was  all 
under  water.  In  this  angle  the  Rue  d'Universite  and 
the  Rue  de  Lille  were  practically  inaccessible.  We 
who  lived  in  the  Latin,  Luxembourg  and  Montparnasse 
Quarters  could  reach  the  Seine  only  by  the  Rue 
Dauphine  or  the  Boulevard  Saint-Michel.  For  in- 
creasing torrents  soon  covered  the  Rue  des  Saints- 
Peres,  the  Rue  Bonaparte  and  the  Rue  de  Seine.  We 
had  never  realized  before  how  the  early  builders  of 
Paris,  in  their  determination  to  stick  to  the  river  for 
purposes  of  defence,  had  reclaimed  ground  much  lower 
than  the  flood  level  of  the  Seine,  relying  upon  the 
masonry  of  the  quais  to  keep  back  the  river.  In  modern 
times  we  have  undetermined  the  natural  defences  of  the 
Rive  Gauche  by  bringing  our  railways  to  the  center  of 
the  city,  by  our  sewers  and  by  the  subways.  When 
you  are  on  a  Seine  river-boat,  you  can  see  all  along  the 
river  how  we  have  opened  up  the  city  to  floods.  Paris, 

160 


"MANY  WATERS  CANNOT  QUENCH  LOVE" 

honeycombed  underground,  fell  an  easy  prey  to  the  fury 
of  the  river.  The  very  skill  that  added  to  the  material 
comfort  and  well-being  of  the  city  made  Paris  vulner- 
able when  the  unexpected  and  unprecedented  happened. 

The  Jardin  des  Plantes,  set  apart  originally  for 
botanical  purposes  as  its  name  indicates,  has  gradually 
become  the  Paris  "Zoo."  Many  American  tourists  go 
there  because  it  is  the  place  where  Cuvier  worked  and 
do  not  realize  that  it  is  the  home  of  wild  animals  also. 
The  Jardin  d'Acclimatation  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  is 
more  visited,  and  I  have  often  heard  my  compatriots 
express  surprise  at  the  paucity  of  what  they  think  is  the 
Paris  "Zoo."  The  Jardin  des  Plantes  is  less  fashion- 
able but  much  richer  in  its  variety  of  animals.  As  it  is 
on  the  river,  it  was  invaded  by  the  flood.  In  the  first 
days,  before  we  realized  the  calamity  of  the  rising 
waters,  the  Jardin  des  Plantes  was  thronged  with 
visitors.  Interest  centered  around  the  bear-pits.  The 
polar  bears  alone  seemed  to  enjoy  splashing  in  the  icy 
waters.  The  climbers  were  soon  treed.  It  was  an  en- 
gineering feat  to  rescue  them  with  planks  and  prod 
them  into  portable  cages.  The  non-climbers  narrowly 
escaped  drowning.  We  watched  them  lifted  out  by 
cranes,  caught  in  sturdy  nets.  This  was  the  only 
means  of  rescue  as  they  tore  with  their  claws  the  bands 
that  were  first  placed  around  them  by  men  whose  only 
experience  had  been  lifting  horses  and  cows  from  pits. 

When  the  river  broke  all  records,  the  whole  garden 

161 


PARIS  VISTAS 

was  flooded.  Many  keepers  were  prevented  from 
reaching  their  posts.  The  police  took  charge.  Food 
supplies  were  lacking,  and  the  few  keepers  on  hand  did 
not  dare  to  let  their  dangerous  charges  loose.  The  fur- 
naces were  flooded  and  there  was  no  heat.  In  the 
monkey-houses  the  shivering  animals,  perched  high, 
scolded  and  growled  with  chattering  teeth.  We  saw 
them  form  a  swinging  bridge  to  lift  out  of  the  water's 
reach  one  of  their  number  who  seemed  unable  to  climb. 
Lions  and  tigers,  cold  and  hungry,  roared  and  dashed 
themselves  against  their  bars  until  the  belated  order  ar- 
rived to  shoot  them.  The  hippopotamus,  contrary  to 
tradition,  drowned.  Only  the  birds,  proud  possessors 
of  the  secret  of  aviation,  were  superior  to  the  calamity. 
Here  was  the  occasion  for  a  new  Noah.  But  alas,  not 
even  an  ark  arrived,  and  it  took  Paris  many  years  to 
restock  the  garden.  Even  now  there  are  no  giraffes 
like  those  that  used  to  look  at  us  from  their  sublime 
heights. 

On  the  River  Droite,  the  Gare  de  Lyon  was  an  island. 
Nearer  the  flood  took  possession  of  the  Quai  des  Grands 
Augustins  with  its  famous  book  shop,  and,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Place  Saint-Michel,  the  quaint  old  streets 
up  to  the  Place  Maubert.  A  depression  there,  where 
the  walls  of  old  Paris  once  stood,  brought  the  flood  up 
to  the  roofs  of  some  little  houses. 

In  the  Rue  Servandoni  we  escaped  the  flood:  for  the 
ground  rises  steadily  from  the  Boulevard  Saint-Germain 

162 


"MANY  WATERS  CANNOT  QUENCH  LOVE" 

to  Montparnasse.  This  put  us  considerably  above  the 
reach  of  the  river.  On  Friday  afternoon,  when  we 
were  facing  a  danger  that  stupified  all,  the  flood  was 
at  its  height.  We  conceived  the  idea  of  viewing  it 
from  the  top  of  Notre-Dame.  It  was  a  long  process 
for  us,  as  hundreds  of  others  thought  of  the  same  thing, 
and  we  could  not  both  go  up  together.  I  waited  with 
the  baby  in  the  taxi  while  Herbert  faisait  la  queue  (if 
you  do  not  know  what  this  expression  means  it  would 
be  well  to  learn  it  before  visiting  Paris!)  After  he 
came  down  I  had  my  turn.  I  was  cold  enough  to  enjoy 
the  climb.  The  view  from  the  top  of  the  tower  was 
unique.  The  next  day  would  have  been  too  late.  We 
caught  the  flood  at  its  flood.  Paris  was  swimming. 
On  both  sides  the  cathedral  had  become  an  angry 
menacing  rush  of  water.  Debris  and  wreckage  was 
choked  against  the  bridge  piers.  One  realized  that 
habit  had  given  us  a  sense  of  proportion  to  the  city- 
scape.  The  effect  of  diminished  ground-floors  and  ab- 
breviated lamp-posts  and  trees  was  sinister.  It  was  as 
if  elemental  forces,  subdued  and  imprisoned  when  the 
earth's  surface  cooled,  had  escaped.  As  I  looked  down 
on  the  scene,  I  felt  that  abysmal  water  was  breaking 
forth.  Where  would  it  end? 

After  leaving  Notre-Dame  we  rode  up  one  side  of  the 
river  to  Auteuil  and  down  the  other,  frequently  forced 
to  make  long  detours.  Our  remorseless  enemy  was 
making  sad  inroads  upon  the  He-Saint  Louis,  and  it 

163 


PARIS  VISTAS 

seemed  as  if  it  would  soon  sweep  away  the  Cite.  The 
Sainte-Chapelle  was  almost  afloat,  as  were  the  Con- 
ciergerie  and  the  Tour  de  1'Horloge.  The  river  sur- 
passed the  parapets.  The  arches  of  most  of  the  bridges 
had  vanished.  The  colossal  statues  of  the  Pont  de 
PAlma  were  submerged  to  their  chins.  At  the  Pont 
d'Auteuil  the  water  reached  the  wreath  around  the 
letter  N.  Although  the  newspapers  warned  us  that 
they  might  be  swept  away,  the  bridges  were  crowded 
with  sightseers.  Curiosity  is  stronger  than  fear.  The 
current  carried  every  conceivable  object.  At  the  Pont 
d'Arcole  the  calamity  was  forgotten  in  the  sport  of 
watching  huge  barrels  sucked  one  by  one  under  an  arch 
and  jumping  high  in  the  air  as  they  came  out  on  the 
other  side. 

Returning  from  Auteuil  as  darkness  was  falling,  we 
had  to  pass  above  the  Trocadero,  the  Rue  de  Bassano 
and  the  Champs-Elysees.  Newsboys  were  crying 
extras :  "The  river  still  rises !"  We  were  in  darkness. 
No  lights  on  the  Avenue  des  Champs-Elysees.  An  en- 
gineer regiment  was  fighting  the  water  in  the  Place  de 
la  Concorde  by  the  light  of  acetylene  lamps.  The 
wheezing  of  an  old  pump  taking  water  out  of  the  cellar 
of  Maxim's  was  the  only  sign  of  life  on  the  gay  Rue 
Royale.  To  return  to  the  Rive  Gauche  we  had  to  go 
down  to  the  Pont-Neuf.  The  other  bridges  were  now 
barred.  Does  it  not  speak  eloquently  for  the  genius 
of  our  ancestors  that,  with  bridges  every  few  hundred 

164 


"MANY  WATERS  CANNOT  QUENCH  LOVE" 

feet,  the  only  one  that  could  be  trusted — the  sole  link 
between  Rive  Droite  and  Rive  Gauche — was  the  work 
of  Henri  IV  at  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century*? 

Our  chauffeur,  keeping  up  a  running  comment  in 
which  the  hint  as  to  his  expectation  of  a  substantial 
•pourboire  was  uppermost,  picked  his  way  as  best  he 
could  back  to  the  Rue  Servandoni.  We  saw  strange 
sights  that  night,  wooden  paving-blocks  floating  in  a 
messy  jumble;  a  few  restaurants  endeavoring  to  dispel 
the  gloom  with  candles;  soldiers  with  fixed  bayonets 
guarding  the  inundated  quarters.  It  was  bitter  cold 
and  the  glare  of  their  fires  was  weirdly  silhouetted  in 
the  rising  waters,  mingled  with  the  shadows  of  deserted 
houses. 

The  river  reached  thirty-one  feet  seven  inches  at  mid- 
night Friday.  During  the  rest  of  the  night  and  Satur- 
day it  remained  stationary.  Saturday  evening  it  began 
to  fall  slightly,  and  on  Sunday  all  Paris  was  out  in  gay 
holiday  attire  to  view  the  damage  and  to  celebrate  the 
retreat  of  the  enemy.  Lightheartedness  returned  im- 
mediately. Why  worry  about  what  was  over*?  This 
is  the  credo  t)f  Paris.  But  we  had  seen  during  the  dark 
week  of  flood-fighting  a  prophetic  revelation  of  the 
real  character  of  the  people  among  whom  we  lived. 
Little  did  we  dream  that  the  precious  qualities  shown 
in  the  flood  crisis  were  to  be  brought  out  more  than  once 
again  in  future  years.  In  1914  we  were  not  surprised 
at  the  courage,  persistence,  unflagging  energy  and 

165 


PARIS  VISTAS 

solidarity  with  suffering  of  the  Parisians.  The  flood, 
as  I  look  back  on  it,  did  more  damage  to  Paris  than 
was  done  during  the  war  by  German  bombs.  It  was  a 
more  formidable  enemy  than  the  Germans.  I  remem- 
ber the  comment  of  my  old  Emilie :  "Mon  Dieu,  this 
thing  is  worse  than  fire.  You  can  fight  fire  with  water, 
but  with  what  can  you  fight  water  *?" 

When  the  newspapers  Sunday  morning  assured  us 
that  the  danger  was  over,  I  realized  how  wonderful  had 
been  the  struggle  of  civilians  and  soldiers  against  the 
elemental.  It  was  a  manifestation  of  their  love  for 
their  city.  And  in  the  quick  and  generous  relief  given 
on  all  sides — and  unostentatiously — to  those  who  were 
driven  from  their  homes  was  the  proof  that  'hearts  beat 
fast  and  firm  to  help  fellow-citizens  as  well  as  to  save 
the  historic  monuments  that  line  the  banks  of  the  Seine. 
That  is  why,  when  Herbert  went  out  to  preach  in  the 
Rue  Roquepine  church,  I  gave  him  his  text  from  the 
Hebrew  songster:  "Many  waters  cannot  quench  love; 
neither  can  the  floods  drown  it." 


166 


CHAPTER  XVII 

REAL    PARIS    SHOWS 

FOR  many  years  the  old  expression -that  we  can't  get 
rid  of,  "the  Salon,"  has  been  a  misnomer.  There 
are  five  Salons,  and,  as  going  to  see  the  season's  pictures 
and  statues  is  a  form  of  amusement  and  distraction  in 
Paris  on  a  par  with  theatrical  productions,  all  five  are 
equally  important.  Even  if  one  desires  to  judge  by 
the  standard  of  art,  establishing  categories  of  excellence 
and  importance  is  impossible.  The  longer  one  lives  in 
Paris,  the  more  one  realizes  the  absolute  lack  of  criteria 
in  judging  artistic  achievement.  Painters  and  sculp- 
tors, poets  and  playwrights  and  authors,  singers  and 
actors  do  not  acknowledge  the  existence  of  the  jury  of 
public  opinion,  much  less  newspaper  critics,  art  juries, 
premiers  prix,  medals,  and  organizations.  Schools  are 
legion:  standards  are  the  taste  and  liking  of  the  in- 
dividual. So  we  let  those  who  claim  temperament  and 
genius  have  their  chance,  and  we  go  to  the  five  Salons 
with  equal  zest,  just  as  we  look  constantly  for  lights 
under  a  bushel  to  please  us  far  from  the  Academic 
Franchise  and  other  bodies  of  the  Institut.  In  June 
the  two  "regular"  Salons  exhibit  separately,  although 
simultaneously,  in  the  Grand  Palais.  There  is  an 

167 


PARIS  VISTAS 

autumn  Salon  of  the  progressives.  The  humorists  and 
cartoonists  have  their  own  Salon.  Last,  but  not  least 
(in  numbers!)  the  independents  exhibit  what  they 
please  in  wooden  buildings  erected  on  Cours-la-Reine. 

On  a  late  June  afternoon  in  1914, 1  stood  on  the  steps 
of  the  Grand  Palais,  after  an  afternoon  in  the  two  big 
Salons — I  mean  to  say  principal  Salons — no,  in  order  to 
escape  criticism  let  me  put  it  "most  universally  accepted 
as  important"  Salons.  It  was  raining  hard.  I  never 
saw  the  water  come  down  in  sheets  the  way  it  did  that 
afternoon.  Cabs  were  of  course  unobtainable.  The 
wind  made  umbrellas  no  protection.  And  I  was  wear- 
ing -my  best  frock.  What  a  bother!  Hundreds 
waited  as  I  did,  preferring  the  additional  fatigue  of 
standing  herded  almost  to  suffocation  to  spoiling  their 
clothes.  Suddenly,  the  rumor  spread  of  a  flood,  a 
flood  as  disastrous  as  1910.  Only  this  time  the  water 
came  from  above.  So  heavy  was  the  rainfall  that 
sewers  were  bursting  and  new  excavations  for  subway 
extension  were  caving  in.  Enterprising  newsboys 
brought  us  the  evening  papers  with  scare  headlines. 
Not  far  from  where  we  were  an  hour  earlier  choirboys, 
going  home  from  practice,  were  swallowed  up  in  the 
earth  in  front  of  Saint-Philippe-de-Roule.  A  taxi-cab 
hurrying  along  the  Rue  du  Faubourg-Saint-Honore 
disappeared.  The  earth  opened  up  under  a  newspaper 
kiosque  and  a  shoe  store  at  the  corner  of  the  Boulevard 
Haussmann  and  the  Rue  du  Havre.  Ebouletnents 

168 


~ 

> 


REAL  PARIS  SHOWS 

everywhere.  The  Place  de  PAlma  was  a  gaping  hole, 
tramway  tracks  and  pavements  falling  into  the  new 
subway  station. 

My  mind  went  back  to  the  dark  week  of  1910,  which 
I  have  just  described.  Comments  of  the  Salon  crowd 
were  identical  in  reaction  to  those  we  heard  after  the 
flood.  "Outrageous,  the  incurie  of  the  municipal  au- 
thorities! Something  -should  be  done  to  protect  us 
against  this  constant  digging.  Why,  it  won't  be  safe 
to  stick  your  nose  out  of  doors.  These  awful  accidents 
— in  Paris,  mind  you!  Something  must  be  done!" 
For  an  hour  it  went  on  like  that.  Then  the  storm 
stopped.  The  sun,  still  high  at  six  in  June,  broke 
through  the  clouds.  The  wind  died  down.  I  started 
up  to  the  Champs-Elysees  with  the  crowd.  More 
newsboys!  This  time  the  principal  headline  an- 
nounced the  trial  of  Madame  Caillaux.  The  Parisians 
— and  I  with  them — went  down  into  the  Metro.  An 
hour  ago  such  a  risky  undertaking  would  have  caused  us 
to  shudder  with  horror.  No  more  underground  for  us ! 
As  I  waited  in  line  for  my  ticket,  the  man  in  front  of 
me  said  to  his  wife,  "Now  do  you  really  think  that 
Madame  Caillaux — " 

I  laughed  to  myself.  The  Medes  and  Persians 
boasted  of  not  changing  their  laws.  The  Parisians 
could  boast  of  not  -changing  their  mentality.  A  danger 
over  is  a  danger  forgotten.  Hurrah  for  the  new  sensa- 
tion! My  readers  may  think  me  guilty  of  skipping 

169 


PARIS  VISTAS 

suddenly  backwards  and  forwards  in  this  book  from 
one  thing  to  something  entirely  different.  But  re- 
member that  I  am  writing  in  Paris  and  about  Paris. 
Paris  is  like  that.  I  went  forward  to  1914  to  get  an 
illustration  for  1910.  The  very  day  after  we  were  sure 
the  flood  was  going  down,  we  lost  interest  in  the  Seine. 
Our  great  project  of  an -emergency  channel  for  turning 
the  Seine  at  flood-time  died  in  twenty-four  hours  and 
will  not  be  revived  until  Paris  is  actually  being  once 
more  submerged.  Actualite  is  a  word  for  which  we 
Anglo-Saxons  have  no  equivalent.  It  means  the  thing- 
of-the-moment-which-is-of-prime-interest.  And  the 
press  can  create  a  new  actualite  overnight. 

The  Government  did  this  several  times  during  the 
war  in  order  to  relieve  a  tense  internal  political  situa- 
tion. During  the  last  German  drive  we  had  the  affair 
of  the  false  Rodins,  and  we  turned  to  read  about  the 
new  statue  exposed  as  a  fake  each  day  before  we  looked 
for  the  new  German  advance.  When  the  Clemenceau 
Cabinet  was  threatened,  a  twentieth-century  Blue- 
beard, with  the  police  daily  discovering  new  wives,  was 
dished  up  to  us  every  morning  in  all  the  papers. 

Back  in  1910  we  turned  from  the  flood  to  Chantecler. 
After  seven  years  of  heralding  and  "puffing,"  after 
many  mysterious  delays  that  whetted  the  appetite,  the 
management  of  the  Theatre  de  la  Porte  Saint-Martin 
announced  that  the  curiosity  of  Paris  would  be  re- 
warded at  the  end  of  January.  The  flood  was  the  last 

170 


REAL  PARIS  SHOWS 

postponement.  The  waters  had  hardly  begun  to  recede 
before  public  interest  was  again  centred  upon  Chan- 
feeler.  When  the  repetition  generate  was  given  on 
February  sixth,  oldest  inhabitants  and  historians  of  the 
French  theatre  were  agreed  that  not  even  Hernani 
nor  yet  Le  Mariage  de  Figaro  had  created  so  universal 
an  anticipatory  interest.  Was  Chantecler  merely  an 
eccentric  literary  endeavor  or  was  it  to  prove  a  practical 
theatrical  venture1?  More  than  any  living  writer 
Rostand  had  been  able  to  win  for  his  plays  recognition 
as  literature  and  recognition  as  "money-winners"  in  the 
theatres  of  foreign  countries  as  well  as  his  own. 

Looking  back  over  a  decade  I  may  be  wrong  in  com- 
paring a  past  with  a  present  event.  But  I  honestly 
believe  that  there  was  far  more  interest  in  Paris  in  what 
was  going  on  at  the  Porte-Saint-Martin  on  the  evening 
of  February  6,  1910,  than  in  what  took  place  at  Ver- 
sailles on  the  afternoon  of  June  28,  1919.  Interest 
was  lost  in  the  Treaty  of  Versailles  before  it  was  signed. 
Chantecler  had  a  fighting  chance  to  succeed.  Just  as 
the  curtain  started  to  rise  before  the  cream  of  French 
literary  and  theatrical  circles  there  was  a  cry  of  "Pas 
encore!"  M.  Jean  Coquelin  sprang  up  from  the 
prompter's  box  in  conventional  evening  dress.  Was 
there  to  be  another  postponement — a  fiasco  in  the 
presence  of  the  invited  guests'?  No:  for  M.  Coquelin 
began  to  recite  a  prologue,  inimitably  phrased.  He 
told  the  audience  that  they  were  to  be  introduced  to  a 

171 


PARIS  VISTAS 

barnyard  as  soon  as  the  farmer's  family  had  gone.  It 
was  Sunday  afternoon,  and  when  the  chores  were 
finished,  the  animals  would  be  left  to  themselves.  As 
he  spoke,  numerous  illustrative  sounds  came  from  the 
stage.  We  heard  the  young  girls  going  off  with  a  song 
on  their  lips,  the  wheels  of  a  receding  carriage,  the  bells 
of  the  village  church,  and  shots  of  hunters  out  for  their 
Sunday  sport.  Then  M.  Coquelin  disappeared,  and 
the  curtain  went  up. 

The  first  two  acts  were  wildly  received.  The  third 
act  was  too  long  and  modernisms  marred  the  beauty 
of  the  verse.  The  lyrical  continuity  of  the  play  was 
broken  by  the  introduction  of  a  purely  satirical  effect. 
The  real  reason  for  lack  of  sustained  interest  was  the 
mental  confusion  and  weariness  of  having  to  imagine 
the  actors  as  animals.  The  human  mind  is  incapable 
of  receiving  through  the  sense  of  vision  a  representa- 
tion of  the  unreal,  where  the  real  is  at  the  same  time 
glaringly  evident,  and  keep  clear,  harmonious,  con- 
cordant images.  No  ingenuity  could  make  an  actor's 
figure  like  a  bird's.  And  then  humans  do  not  differ  in 
size  like  birds.  There  was  no  way  of  approximating 
widely  different  proportions  of  the  rooster,  the  black- 
bird, the  pheasant  and  the  nightingale. 

In  watching  Chantecler  I  had  the  same  painful  im- 
pression of  how  we  are  handicapped  by  the  multiplicity 
of  necessities  we  have  created  for  ourselves  in  modern 
days  as  I  had  in  watching  the  flood.  Our  evolution 

172 


REAL  PARIS  SHOWS 

has  bound  us  fast  with  chains  of  our  own  forging. 
Physically  and  mentally,  we  have  manufactured  so 
many  props  to  lean  upon  that  we  can  no  longer  stand 
on  our  own  feet.  Chantecler  cannot  be  compared  with 
the  animal  plays  of  Aristophanes  for  in  Greek  drama 
there  was  no  attempt  to  present  to  the  spectators  a 
visual  image  in  harmony  with  the  audile  image. 
Nor  even  in  Shakespeare's  time  was  the  dramatist 
limited  by  the  difficulties  of  a  mise  en  scene.  A  Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream  was  an  easier  proposition  for 
the  Elizabethan  actor  than  for  Sir  Herbert  Beerbohm 
Tree,  despite  the  properties  of  Her  Majesty's  Theatre, 
the  hidden  orchestra  playing  Mendelssohn's  music,  and 
the  magic  aerial  ballets. 

Our  next  "real  show"  was  the  political  campaign  for 
the  new  Chamber  of  Deputies  that  was  to  inaugurate 
the  fifth  decade  of  the  Third  Republic  on  June  first. 
Herbert  spent  an  inordinate  amount  of  time,  I  thought, 
in  puzzling  out  the  voting  strength  of  the  Ministerialist 
and  Opposition  groups,  and  patiently  wrote  articles  for 
American  magazines  about  Radical  Socialists,  Clemen- 
ceau  and  Caillaux,  to  vary  his  Turkish  articles.  But 
whether  he  treated  of  French  leaders  and  politics  or  of 
Venizelos  or  of  the  Young  Turks,  his  articles  invariably 
came  back  with  a  polite  rejection  slip.  We  put  them 
away  and  sold  them  later,  when  they  were  out  of  date, 
for  more  than  we  would  have  gotten  then.  Our  money 
for  writing  came  from  the  Herald,  and  we  realized  that 

173 


PARIS  VISTAS 

if  you  want  to  make  your  living  by  writing  the  anchor 
to  a  newspaper  is  not  lightly  to  be  weighed. 

But  though  I  was  not  even  mildly  interested  in 
Radical  Socialists,  Republicans  of  the  Left,  Indepen- 
dent Socialists,  Progressists  and  what  not,  I  did  like  to 
go  to  political  meetings.  They  were  good  for  your 
French  and  good  for  the  opportunity  of  studying  the 
influence  of  politics  upon  the  Latin  character.  How 
the  French  love  meetings!  They  use  our  English 
word  instead  of  reunion,  just  as  they  *always  speak  of 
self-government.  But  they  are  not  at  all  like  us  in 
politics.  There  are  'as  many  parties  as  there  are  lead- 
ers, and  their  campaigns  center  around  personalities, 
not  principles. 

In  1910,  the  first  round  of  the  election  was  on  April 
24,  and  the  final  round  on  May  8.  It  just  happened 
that  May  first  was  a  Sunday,  and  fell  between  the  two 
election  Sundays.  Throughout  the  Third  Republic, 
Labor  Day  has  been  a  time  of  fear  and  trembling  for 
the  Paris  bourgeoisie.  The  Cabinet  is  always  anxious 
on  May  first.  You  never  can  tell  what  is  going  to 
happen  when  crowds  gather  in  Paris:  so  the  wise  Gov- 
ernment does  not  allow  trouble  to  be  started.  En- 
couraged by  the  success  of  their  Ferrer  demonstration 
on  the  Boulevard  de  Clichy  a  few  months  before,  the 
revolutionary  elements  decided  to  make  May  Day  a  big 
event  with  the  hope  of  influencing  the  second  round  of 
the  elections.  Premier  Briand  decided  there  would  be 

174 


REAL  PARIS  SHOWS 

no  May  Day  parade.  Believing  that  the  Government 
would  not  dare  to  come  into  conflict  with  them  in  the 
midst  of  their  election  struggle,  workingmen's  unions 
plastered  Paris  with  boastful  posters  announcing  a 
monster  demonstration  in  the  Bois  de  Bologne,  followed 
by  a  parade  to  the  Place  de  la  Concorde.  This  was  in 
open  defiance  to  the  law,  which  requires  a  permit  for 
gatherings  in  the  open  air  and  for  parades.  But  M. 
Briand  was  equal  to  the  occasion.  Saturday  night  he 
threw  twenty  thousand  troops  into  Paris.  They 
bivouacked  in  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  the  Place  de 
PEtoile,  and  in  the  Bois.  I  took  Christine  to  church. 
After  the  service,  we  went  to  the  Bois  for  lunch.  There 
were  troops  on  every  road  in  the  part  of  the  Bois  indi- 
cated in  the  posters  as  the  workingmen's  rendez-vous. 
Here  and  there  little  tents  with  the  Red  Cross  flag  were 
pitched,  and  to  make  the  picture  more  impressive  doc- 
tors in  white  coats  stood  before  the  door.  This  scared 
the  workingmen  more  than  the  soldiers  did.  We  saw 
many  of  them  in  their  blue  blouses.  But  they  took 
care  not  to  stop  or  to  walk  in  numbers. 

The  bourgeoisie  were  able  to  rest  easy.  Assured 
that  order  would  be  kept,  fashionable  Paris  flocked  in 
great  numbers  to  the  Longchamp  races.  Of  course  we 
went,  too.  As  Herbert  had  a  story,  he  bought  the  best 
seats.  We  were  not  far  from  President  Fallieres,  and 
we  saw  the  spring  fashions.  Scrappie  created  as  much 
of  a  sensation  as  some  of  the  gowns.  People  who  fre- 

175 


PARIS  VISTAS 

quent  Longchamp  are  not  in  the  habit  of  bringing  babies 
with  them.  But  with  me  it  is  always,  "love  me,  love 
my  child." 

The  unions  did  not  have  good  luck  in  the  spring  of 
1910.  But  no  more  did  the  clericals  and  monarchists. 
Hopes  of  a  clerical  reaction  were  dissipated.  Briand 
was  as  bitter  against  the  orders  -as  against  the  unions. 
The  royalists  no  longer  count.  We  had  many  royalist 
friends.  Some  we  knew  well  enough  to  ask,  "How 
goes  the  propaganda?"  And  they  knew  us  well  enough 
to  answer,  "Pas  de  blague!  C'esf  a  rireT  "Stop 
teasing  me:  it's  a  joke!"  The  Duke  of  Orleans  has 
about  as  much  chance  of  being  King  of  France  as  he 
has  of  being  President  of  the  United  States.  In  our 
estimates  of  political  conditions  are  we  not  too  apt  to 
judge  France  by  her  checkered  past*?  There  is  no  gov- 
ernment in  Europe  more  assured  of  stability  than  the 
French  Republic:  and  this  was  as  true  in  1910  as  it  is 
in  1919. 

Public  lectures  are  a  source  of  diversion  to  Parisians. 
We  Americans  think  that  we  are  great  on  listening  to 
ourselves  and  others  talk.  But  crowds  in  France  do 
not  need  a  political  campaign,  a  religious  revival  or  a 
return  from  near  the  North  Pole  to  come  together  for  a 
lecture.  The  most  surprising  topics,  treated  by  men 
who  are  not  in  the  public  eye,  draw  attentive  and 
assiduous  audiences.  Every  day  you  have  a  wealth  of 
choice  in  free  lectures  in  Paris.  Some  newspapers 

176 


REAL  PARIS  SHOWS 

publish  the  lecture  program  of  the  day  just  as  naturally 
as  they  publish  the  theatrical  offerings.  At  the  Sor- 
bonne,  the  College  de  France,  the  Ecole  des  Hautes- 
Etudes,  the  Ecole  des  Sciences  Politiques,  the  Ecole  des 
Chartes,  the  various  Musees,  and  a  host  of  other  organi- 
zations offer  single  lectures  and  courses  of  lectures,  week 
days  and  Sundays,  either  free  or  for  a  very  slight  fee. 
Many  of  the  best  courses  in  the  various  Facultes  of  the 
University  of  Paris  are  open  to  the  public.  Just  to 
give  one  instance  of  popular  interest  in  a  rather  techni- 
cal subject,  we  used  to  attend  the  courses  in  physical 
geography  of  Professor  Brunhes  at  the  College  de 
France.  That  year  he  was  treating  the  formation  of 
the  mountainous  center  of  France.  If  you  did  not  go 
early,  your  chances  of  a  seat  were  slim.  There  were 
always  people  standing  thronged  at  the  doors  way  out 
into  the  hall.  This  was  not  unusual.  Any  man  who 
knew  his  subject  and  who  could  treat  it  with  vigor  and 
wit  was  sure  of  a  salle  comble.  His  subject  did  not 
matter.  One  did  not  have  to  spend  money:  free 
courses  were  as  attractive  as  those  for  which  a  fee  was 
charged.  We  discovered  that  Parisians  never  cease 
going  to  school.  One  is  accustomed  to  see  only  young 
faces  in  the  class-rooms  of  American  universities.  In 
the  Sorbonne  and  the  College  de  France  there  are  stu- 
dents from  sixteen  to  seventy. 

If  music  is  your  passion,  you  can  indulge  it  to  the 
full  in  Paris.     With  the  Opera  and  Opera  Comique 

177 


PARIS  VISTAS 

and  Opera  Municipal,  there  is  something  that  you 
really  want  to  see  every  day,  and  when  the  music  does 
not  particularly  attract  you,  you  can  be  sure  of  an 
excellent  divertissement,  as  the  ballet  spectacle  is 
called.  Parisians  love  choregraphy.  And  there  is 
choregraphy  for  all  tastes  and  all  moods.  Paris  is  the 
mother  of  the  spectacle  called  revue.  We  have  bor- 
rowed the  ixame  but  not  the  thing.  No  revue  can  be 
successful  in  Paris  unless  it  possesses  distinct  quality 
in  dances,  costumes,  mise  en  scene,  and  especially  in  the 
dialogue.  The  revue  must  reflect  what  Parisians  are 
thinking  about,  take  into  account  actualites,  and  inter- 
pret the  events  of  the  day.  This  means  constant 
change  in  the  dialogue,  suppression  of  old  and  introduc- 
tion of  new  scenes,  to  the  point  where  you  can  go  to 
the  same  revue  in  the  third  month  of  its  run  and  find 
something  entirely  different  as  far  as  the  lines  go.  For 
six  months  of  the  year  the  bands  of  the  Garde  Republi- 
caine  and  of  the  regiments  stationed  in  Paris  play  in 
the  gardens  and  squares  on  Thursdays  and  Sundays. 
The  Tuileries  offers  from  April  to  October  open-air 
opera  and  concerts  in  the  heart  of  the  city.  You  pay 
only  for  your  chair. 

The  foreigner  resident  in  Paris  soon  becomes  aware 
that  he  does  not  have  to  leave  his  own  quarter  to  find  a 
good  evening's  entertainment.  Real  Paris  shows  are 
perhaps  best  to  be  found  far  from  the  Grands  Boule- 
vards, Clichy  and  Montmarte.  From  the  heights  of 

178 


REAL  PARIS  SHOWS 

superior  opportunity  one  does  not  want  to  look  down 
upon  the  tourist  and  tell  him  that  he  does  n't  really  see 
Paris.  But  the  fact  remains  that  when  theatres  and 
music-halls  and  restaurants  become  rendezvous  for 
foreigners  they  insensibly  lose  their  distinctive  local  at- 
mosphere. They  begin  to  cater  to  the  tourist  trade  and 
give  their  audiences  what  they  come  to  see.  This  is  so 
true  of  the  Folies-Bergere,  the  Casino  de  Paris  and  other 
large  music-halls  that  the  program  has  become  half 
English  and  the  actresses  and  choruses  and  clowns  are 
as  often  of  London  as  of  Paris  origin.  The  same 
foreign  invasion  on  the  stage,  following  the  invasion 
in  the  audience,  is  to  be  found  at  the  Ambassadeurs  and 
Marigny  on  the  Champs-Elysees.  Alas !  even  the 
Concert  Mayol  type  of  music-hall  has  succumbed  to  the 
temptation  of  catering  to  the  big  world.  English  and 
American  "turns"  are  dragged  in  by  the  ears  to  enliven 
revues  for  those  who  do  not  understand  French,  and  the 
spectacle  has  become  a  totally  un-Parisian  jumble  of 
vaudeville.  But  in  the  little  music-halls  of  the 
quarters  one  still  finds  the  atmosphere  that  Parisians 
love  and  a  program  offered  to  their  taste.  Herbert  and 
I  used  to  go  to  a  theatre  on  the  Boulevard  Saint- 
Germain,  just  off  the  Boulevard  Saint-Michel,  where 
plays  were  typically  Parisian.  Another  such  theatre 
exists  in  the  Rue  de  la  Gaite.  In  the  same  street  arc 
three  music-halls  that  put  on  songs  and  stage  revues 
for  Parisians.  There  are  probably  a  hundred  theatres 

179 


PARIS  VISTAS 

and  music-halls  of  this  kind  whose  names  do  not  appear 
in  Baedeker,  and  which  have  resisted  successfully  the 
first  decade  of  cinema  competition. 

Last  of  all  among  real  Paris  shows  the  foires  must 
not  be  forgotten.  But  I  speak  of  these  in  another 
chapter  because  visiting  them  is  a  goal  for  a  promenade 
and  not  the  deliberate  seeking  of  an  evening's  enter- 
tainment. You  take  in  a  foire  as  incidental  to  a  walk, 
just  as  your  aperitif  or  your  after-dinner  coffee  is  most 
often  the  price  you  pay  for  a  seat  to  watch  the  passing 
crowd,  which,  when  all  is  said  and  done,  is  the  real 
Paris  show. 


180 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE    SPELL    OF    JUNE 

MY  critic  points  out  that  after  having  been  so 
enthusiastic  about  walks  at  nightfall  and  hav- 
ing put  myself  on  record  as  to  the  exceptional  advan- 
tages of  seeing  Paris  in  the  dark  on  winter  afternoons, 
rain  or  shine,  I  shall  be  inconsistent  in  extolling  day- 
light Paris.  Why  the  spell  of  June,  when  your  walks 
are  wholly  in  daylight?  If  it  were  inconsistency,  be- 
ing a  woman  I  should  be  within  my  rights  to  ask  the 
critic  what  he  expected.  But  is  it  inconsistent?  I 
think  not.  If  I  love  to  go  out  in  the  rain,  if  I  enjoy 
city  streets  at  night  time,  it  does  not  follow  that  I  do 
not  enjoy  good  weather  and  the  long  days  of  June. 
It  is  another  aspect  of  Paris  that  we  get  in  our  walks. 
We  have  time  to  go  on  longer  excursions.  We  "do" 
the  river  and  open  spaces  more  than  old  quarters. 
And,  best  of  all,  in  the  two  Junes  of  our  early  married 
life,  we  took  the  baby  with  us  on  our  strolls.  I  felt 
the  spell  of  June  when  we  returned  to  Paris  from 
Turkey  in  1909.  I  felt  it  more  when  we  were  going 
back  to  Turkey  in  1910.  And  ever  since,  the  Paris 
June  has  had  a  charm  all  its  own,  deepening  with  the 

181 


PARIS  VISTAS 

years.  However  I  may  like  autumn  and  winter  and 
spring,  June  is  the  best  month.  The  spell  is  partly 
due  to  the  knowledge  that  one  is  soon  going  off  to  the 
shore  or  mountains  for  the  summer,  and  partly  to  the 
thought  that  it  might  be  the  last  June.  Each  year  we 
have  felt  that  we  ought  to  return  to  America  in  the 
autumn. 

In  the  Rue  Servandoni  year,  April  and  May  were 
cold,  wet  months.  Spring  fever  did  not  get  us  until 
June.  Then  we  decided  that  all  the  wisdom  and  profit 
of  our  Paris  year  was  not  to  be  found  in  the  Bibli- 
otheque  Nationale.  We  began  to  divorce  ourselves 
from  daily  study  by  the  excuse  that  we  ought  to  get 
together  a  small  library  on  Turkish  history.  Where 
could  the  books  be  bought  more  advantageously  than  on 
the  quais?  From  the  Pont  des  Saints-Peres  to  beyond 
Notre-Dame  the  parapets  of  the  Rive  Gauche  are  used 
by  second-hand  booksellers  for  the  display  of  their 
wares.  The  bouquinistes  clamp  wooden  cases  on  the 
stone  parapets.  You  can  go  for  more  than  a  mile  with 
the  certainty  of  finding  something  interesting  at  an  as- 
tonishingly low  price.  There  is  no  more  delightful 
form  of  loafing  in  the  open  air.  The  books  are  an  ex- 
cuse. They  become  a  habit.  In  order  to  prevent  the 
habit  from  growing  costly,  you  must  make  out  a  budget. 
Some  days  you  are  only  "finding  out  what  is  there" ; 
other  days,  before  leaving  home,  you  divest  yourself  of 
all  the  money  in  your  pocketbooks  and  wallet  except 

182 


THE  SPELL  OF  JUNE 

what  you  feel  you  can  afford  to  spend.  Then  only  are 
you  safe !  I  do  not  know  of  a  more  insidious  tempta- 
tion to  buy  what  you  do  not  need  than  loitering  along 
the  quais  of  the  Rive  Gauche.  In  a  few  days  we  spent 
all  we  could  afford  for  Turkish  history.  But  the  after- 
noon walk  started  earlier  and  ended  later.  We  never 
tired  of  the  quais  and  the  river.  We  watched  fisher- 
men and  the  barges.  We  were  amused  by  the  men 
who  bathe  and  clip  dogs.  We  explored  the  streets  be- 
tween the  Seine  and  the  Boulevard  Saint-Germain. 
We  stood  on  the  Pont  des  Arts  and  watched  the  people 
coming  home  from  work.  We  went  often  into  Notre- 
Dame.  We  glued  our  noses  to  the  window-glass  of 
the  art  print  shops  around  the  Ecole  des  Beaux-Arts. 
We  selected  furniture  (from  the  sidewalk!)  displayed 
in  the  numerous  antique  shops  of  the  Rue  des  Saints- 
Peres,  the  Rue  Bonaparte  and  the  Rue  de  Seine.  We 
always  came  back  at  sunset,  with  the  westward  glow 
before  us.  That  was  when  our  oldest  daughter  got  the 
taste  of  going  to  bed  late. 

The  narrowest  street  in  Paris  is  the  Rue  de  Venise, 
which  runs  from  the  Rue  Beaubourg  across  the  Rue 
Saint-Martin  to  the  Rue  Quicampoix.  But  neither  in 
itself  nor  in  its  location  is  it  as  picturesque  as  the  Rue 
de  Nevers,  luring  you  from  the  Pont  Neuf  as  you  cross 
to  the  Rive  Gauche.  Nowhere  else  in  Paris  is  one  so 
completely  held  by  the  past  as  in  the  Rue  de  Nevers. 
Here  stood  the  Tour  de  Nesle.  The  Mint  now  comes 

183 


PARIS  VISTAS 

up  to  one  side  of  this  street  for  a  few  hundred  feet, 
but  elsewhere  it  is  on  both  sides  as  it  was  in  the  time 
of  Henri  IV.  Massive  doorways,  with  bars  of  iron 
and  peep-holes  covered  with  grating,  tell  the  story  of  a 
time  when  one  relied  upon  himself  for  protection.  No 
agents  in  the  Paris  of  the  fifteenth  century!  Going 
down  to  the  river  from  the  Rue  Servandoni,  we  always 
took  the  Rue  de  Nevers.  In  it  Scrappie's  carriage 
seemed  like  a  full-grown  vehicle.  There  was  always 
the  nervous  fear  that  something  would  be  thrown  out 
on  us  from  upper  windows,  not  unjustified,  as  more 
than  one  narrow  escape  proved.  We  used  to  say  that 
when  the  baby  was  grown  up,  we  should  enjoy  taking 
her  on  one  of  the  promenades  of  her  infancy,  and  es- 
pecially through  the  Rue  de  Nevers.  We  have  shown 
Christine  the  street,  and  hope  that  she  will  remember  it. 
But  she  will  never  show  it  to  her  children.  Some  sani- 
tary engineer,  successor  of  Baron  Haussmann,  has  con- 
ceived a  project  of  widening  the  Rue  Dauphine.  The 
Rue  de  Nevers  will  soon  disappear.  Our  only  hope  is 
that  the  war  will  have  delayed  a  long  time  the  fulfill- 
ment of  projects  that  mean  the  disappearance  of  what 
remains  of  mediaeval  Paris. 

The  Parisian  who  goes  to  New  York  marvels  at  our 
skyscrapers.  He  is  properly  impressed  with  the  hustle 
and  bustle  of  the  New  World.  But  it  does  not  take 
him  long  to  note  the  absence  of  wide  boulevards  and 
the  lack  of  ensemble  in  the  cityscapc.  Then  he  will  in- 

184 


Market  day  in  the  Rue  de  Seine 


THE  SPELL  OF  JUNE 

variably  make  two  comments:  "There  are  no  trees," 
and  "There  is  no  place  to  sit  down."  Except  the  Eiffel 
Tower,  Paris  does  not  boast  of  a  "biggest  in  the  world." 
It  will  take  Americans  centuries  to  acquire  a  sense  of 
harmony  and  proportion  in  city  building.  But  shall 
we  ever  learn  to  bring  the  out-of-doors  into  city  life1? 
Until  we  do  learn  the  big  American  city  will  be  intoler- 
able in  the  summer  months.  Paris,  built  on  ancient 
foundations,  has  increased  to  a  city  of  millions,  and 
one  still  feels  that  an  outing  does  not  mean  going  to 
the  country.  Boulevards  and  quais  are  lined  with 
trees.  Every  open  spot  has  grass  and  flowers.  Best  of 
all,  when  you  want  to  sit  down  to  read  your  paper  or 
look  at  the  crowd,  there  is  always  a  bench.  You  do 
not  have  to  go  home  or  indoors  to  rest,  and  wherever 
you  live,  a  park  or  boulevard  is  near  at  hand.  Parisi- 
ans are  as  closely  huddled  together  as  New  Yorkers. 
But  they  can  spend  all  their  leisure  time  in  the  open. 
The  privilege  of  sitting  down  on  a  bench  is  a  blessing. 
All  the  year  round  you  can  eat  or  drink  out  of  doors. 
I  have  often  marveled  at  the  criticism  that  the  French 
dislike  open  air,  simply  because  they,  like  other  Euro- 
peans, do  not  keep  their  windows  open  at  night.  The 
Parisian  lives  far  more  in  the  open  air  than  the  Ameri- 
can does.  To  be  out  of  doors  day  and  night  is  a 
natural  instinct  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave.  Trees 
and  benches  are  a  large  part  of  the  spell  of  June  in 
Paris. 


PARIS  VISTAS 

Then  there  were  the  omnibuses  with  their  imperiales. 
When  we  did  not  have  the  price  of  a  cab,  we  could  get 
on  top  of  the  Montsouris-Opera  or  Odeon-Clichy  bus, 
and  go  for  a  few  sous  from  south  to  north  across  the 
river  through  the  heart  of  Paris.  We  climbed  to  the 
imperiale  of  the  tram  at  Saint-Sulpice  and  rode  to  Au- 
teuil,  on  the  horse-drawn  omnibus  from  the  Madeleine 
to  the  Bastille,  from  the  Place  Saint-Michel  to  the  Gare 
Saint-Lazare,  from  the  Gare  Montparnasse  to  La  Vil- 
lette,  from  the  Bourse  to  Passy,  from  the  Pantheon  to 
Courcelles.  Alas!  horses  and  imperiales  disappeared 
before  the  war.  The  last  omnibus  with  three  horses 
abreast  was  the  Pantheon-Courcelles  line.  It  was  re- 
placed by  closed  motor-bus  in  1913.  Each  year,  when 
June  comes  round,  I  long  for  these  rides.  Horses,  I 
suppose,  are  gone  forever.  But  we  still  hope  for  the 
revival  of  an  upper  story  on  our  motor-buses.  There 
never  was — or  will  be — a  better  way  of  having  Paris 
vistas  become  a  part  of  your  very  being. 

Foire  means  fair.  But  the  term  is  used  for  a  much 
more  intimate  and  vital  sort  of  a  fair  than  we  have. 
The  French  have  big  formal  fairs  in  buildings  and 
grounds,  where  a  little  fun  is  mixed  in  with  a  lot  of  bus- 
iness. But  they  have  also  small  street  fairs,  solely  for 
amusement,  and  selling  street  fairs,  where  amusements 
have  their  full  share.  The  Paris  foires  are  a  distinct 
institution.  There  is  a  regular  schedule  for  them,  as 
for  Brittany  pardons.  From  the  end  of  March  to  the 

186 


THE  SPELL  OF  JUNE 

beginning  of  November  you  can  always  find  a  foire  in 
the  city  or  the  suburbs.  They  are  held  out  of  doors, 
generally  in  the  center  of  a  boulevard.  Some  of  them 
are  important  institutions.  In  the  business  foires  you 
range  from  scrap-iron,  old  clothes  and  nicked  china  and 
disreputable  furniture  at  the  Porte  Saint-Ouen  and  on 
the  Boulevard  Richard  Lenoir  to  the  costliest  Paris  has 
to  offer  on  the  Esplanade  des  Invalides  and  building 
materials  and  engines  in  the  Tuileries.  The  purely 
amusement  foires  on  the  Quai  d'Orsay,  the  Boulevard 
de  Clichy,  and  at  Saint-Cloud  stretch  for  blocks  and 
are  attended  by  all  Paris.  To  go  to  them  is  the  thing 
to  do. 

But  each  quarter  has  its  foire,  underwritten  by  the 
shop-keepers  and  cafe  proprietors  of  the  neighborhood. 
They  are  never  widely  heralded,  you  stumble  upon 
them  by  chance.  And  if  you  want  to  see  real  Paris 
the  little  foires  give  you  the  closest  glimpse  it  is  pos- 
sible to  get  of  Paris  at  play.  At  the  foires  de  quartier 
there  are  no  onlookers.  Everybody  is  taking  part.  If 
you  do  not  feel  the  impulse  to  get  on  the  merry-go- 
round,  the  dipping  boats,  the  scenic-railway;  if  you 
are  averse  to  having  your  fortune  told;  if  you  feel 
doubtful  of  your  ability  to  throw  a  wooden  ring 
around  the  neck  of  a  bottle  of  champagne;  -if  you  are 
indifferent  to  the  mysteries  of  the  two-headed  calf  and 
the  dancing  cobra;  if  your  stomach  does  not  digest  pain 
d'epice  and  candy  made  of  coal-tar;  if  you  think  your 


PARIS  VISTAS 

baby  ought  not  to  have  a  rubber-doll  or  a  woolly  lamb 
or  a  jumping  rabbit  made  of  cat's  fur — for  heaven's 
sake  stay  away  from  the  foiresl 

Most  of  the  neighborhood  foires  are  held  in  June. 
Whatever  direction  you  take  for  your  evening  walk, 
your  ears  will  give  you  a  goal  towards  which  to  work. 
The  merry-go-rounds  have  the  same  class  of  music  as 
in  America,  and  the  tricks  of  the  barkers — their  figures 
of  speech  even — are  the  same.  But  the  difference  be- 
tween our  amusement  parks  and  the  Paris  foires  is  the 
spontaneous  atmosphere  of  the  foires,  their  setting  im- 
provised in  the  midst  of  the  city,  and  the  amazing  child- 
like quality  of  the  fun.  Seven  or  seventy,  you  enjoy 
the  wooden  horses  just  as  much.  And  there  is  no  dig- 
nity to  lose.  You  do  not  care  a  bit  if  your  cook  sees 
you  wildly  pushing  a  fake  bicycle  or  standing  engrossed 
in  the  front  row  of  the  crowd  watching  a  juggler. 

The  glorious  days  of  June,  when  we  put  work  delib- 
erately out  of  our  scheme  of  things,  furnish  oppor- 
tunities for  excursions  of  a  different  character  than  those 
of  Sunday.  At  the  risk  of  being  ridiculed  again  by  my 
critic,  who  has  read  my  praise  of  repos  hebdomadaire, 
I  must  confess  that  Sunday  has  its  drawbacks.  The 
whole  city  is  out  on  Sunday,  and  every  place  is  crowded. 
Your  good  time  is  somewhat  marred  all  day  long  by 
the  anticipation  of  the  crowded  trains  and  trams,  for  a 
place  in  which  you  wait  with  much  less  equanimity  than 
when  you  left  home  in  the  morning.  On  week  days 

188 


THE  SPELL  OF  JUNE 

there  are  no  waits  and  plenty  of  room.  I  can  entice 
my  husband  from  his  work — if  it  is  June ! 

It  is  surprising  how  far  afield  it  is  possible  to  go  at 
little  drain  on  your  strength  and  pocket-book  on  a  June 
week-day.  We  wanted  just  the  country  sometimes. 
Then  it  was  the  valley  of  Chevreuse,  Villers-Cotteret, 
luncheon  in  a  tree  at  Robinson,  or  the  Marne  between 
Meaux  and  Chateau-Thierry.  On  a  very  bright  day 
one  could  choose  the  shade  of  Compiegne,  Chantilly, 
Rambouillet,  Versailles,  Marly,  Saint-Germain-en- 
Laye,  Saint-Cloud,  Fountainebleau,  forests  and  parks 
incomparable.  Cathedral-hungry  or  in  a  mood  for  the 
past,  Amiens,  Beauvais,  Evreux,  Dreux,  Orleans,  Man- 
tes, Chartres,  Sens,  Troyes,  Rheims,  Laon,  Soissons, 
Noyon,  and  Senlis  are  from  one  to  three  hours  by  train. 
A  good  luncheon  at  little  cost  is  always  easily  found. 
And  after  lunch  you  have  no  difficulty  in  getting  a 
cocker  to  take  you  to  the  ruins  of  a  castle  or  abbey  for 
a  few  francs. 

Inexhaustible  as  is  the  banlieue  of  Paris  you  are  al- 
ways glad  to  get  back.  From  whatever  direction  you 
return,  the  first  you  see  of  the  great  city  is  the  Eiffel 
Tower.  It  beckons  you  back  to  the  spell  of  June — in 
Paris. 


189 


1913 


CHAPTER  XIX 

CHILDHOOD    VISTAS    FOR   A    NEW    GENERATION 

IN  September,  1910,  we  went  to  Constantinople  for 
just  one  year,  as  we  had  gone  to  Tarsus  for  one  year. 
But  the  lure  of  the  East  held  us.  We  loved  our  home 
up  above  the  Bosphorus  behind  the  great  castle  of  Ru- 
meli  Hissar.  When  the  Judas-trees  were  ablaze  and 
nightingales  were  singing  that  first  spring  in  Constan- 
tinople, we  forgot  Paris  and  rashly  promised  to  stay 
two  years  longer.  Life  was  full  of  adventure,  the  war 
with  Italy,  the  war  between  Turkey  and  the  Balkan 
States  during  which  our  city  was  the  prize  fought  for, 
cholera,  the  coming  of  our  second  baby,  and  a  won- 
derful trip  in  the  Balkans.  We  would  not  have  missed 
it,  no,  but  Paris  called  us  again,  and  we  decided  to 
leave  the  political  unrest  and  wars  of  the  Near  East  to 
return  to  the  peaceful  atmosphere  of  the  Bibliotheque 
Nationale. 

My  husband  could  not  get  away  from  Constantinople 
until  the  end  of  June  and  then  he  wanted  to  pay  his 
way  back  to  Paris  by  traveling  through  the  Balkans 
again  after  peace  was  signed  with  Turkey.  With  my 
two  children,  I  sailed  for  Marseilles  at  the  beginning  of 
March  and  reached  Paris  just  in  time  to  get  the  last 

193 


PARIS  VISTAS 

weeks  of  winter.  In  the  calendar  seasons  are  conven- 
tional. As  in  the  United  States,  France  frequently  has 
winter  until  April  is  well  started. 

I  found  a  little  apartment  on  the  Rue  du  Mont- 
parnasse  just  north  of  the  Boulevard.  From  the  stand- 
point of  my  friends  I  suppose  the  Quarter  was  a  bit 
more  comme  il  faut  than  the  Rue  Servandoni.  I 
missed  the  picturesqueness  of  our  old  abode  with  the 
epicerie  on  the  ground  floor  and  the  moyenageux  atmos- 
phere. But  the  change  to  the  Montparnasse  Quarter 
had  its  compensations.  The  air,  none  too  good  in  the 
great  city,  is  better  around  the  Boulevard  du  Mont- 
parnasse than  in  any  other  part  of  the  city  except  Mont- 
martre,  Belleville  and  Buttes-Chaumont.  You  are  on 
high  ground  away  from  the  heavy  mists  and  dampness 
of  the  river.  Communications  are  excellent.  You  do 
not  have  to  sacrifice  the  feeling  of  being  in  a  real  vital 
part  of  Paris,  either.  We  still  lived  in  the  midst  of 
historical  association.  If  Gondorcet  hid  in  the  Rue 
Servandoni  from  those  who  would  have  chopped  his 
head  off  during  the  Terror,  Lamartine  was  hauled  from 
a  house  on  the  Rue  du  Montparnasse  by  the  soldiers  of 
Louis  Napoleon  at  the  beginning  of  the  coup  d'etat  of 
1851,  and  to  the  Rue  du  Montparnasse  flocked  the 
cream  of  Paris  on  Mondays  to  hear  Sainte-Beuve  dur- 
ing the  Third  Empire. 

It  was  a  new  world  opened  for  the  eyes  of  Christine 
and  Lloyd  to  live  cooped  up  in  an  apartment  after  the 

194 


CHILDHOOD  VISTAS  FOR  A  NEW  GENERATION 

big  house  at  Rumeli  Hissar  and  to  have  to  walk 
through  city  streets  to  find  a  garden  to  play  in  instead  of 
simply  stepping  out  of  their  own  front  door.  But  life 
has  its  compensations — everywhere  and  at  all  times. 
You  never  get  anything  without  sacrificing  something 
else  for  it.  We  have  to  choose  at  every  step,  and  we 
must  turn  away  from  some  blessings  to  obtain  others. 
I  love  the  country.  Theoretically  speaking,  it  is  the 
best  place  to  bring  up  children.  But  living  in  the  open 
does  deprive  them  of  the  mental  alertness,  of  the  broad 
vision  from  infancy,  of  the  self-reliance,  of  the  habits 
of  industry  that  childhood  in  the  city  alone  can  give. 
And  then,  the  doctor  comes  right  away  when  you  tele- 
phone. 

Thirty-Eight  Rue  du  Montparnasse  was  opposite 
Notre-Dame-des-Champs,  and  only  a  door  down  from 
the  Boulevard.  From  the  windows  my  tots  could  see 
the  passing  show  on  the  boulevard :  and  the  church  was 
a  never-failing  source  of  interest.  Just  opposite  us  was 
the  sexton's  apartment,  tucked  into  the  roof  of  the 
church.  It  is  characteristic  of  Paris  that  a  home  should 
be  hidden  away  in  an  unexpected  corner  like  this. 
From  the  windows  Christine  and  Lloyd  could  see  the 
little  church  children  playing  on  their  flat  roof,  and  out 
of  the  door  below  the  choir  boys  passed  in  and  out. 
We  went  into  our  apartment  at  First  Communion  sea- 
son. My  childhood  enjoyed  the  "little  brides  of 
Christ"  in  their  white  dresses  and  veils.  Every  day 

195 


PARIS  VISTAS 

had  its  weddings  and  funerals.  The  children  did  not 
distinguish  between  life  and  death.  Whenever  car- 
riages stopped  in  front  of  the  church,  they  would  jump 
up  and  down  and  shout,  "Manage!" 

A  little  sister  arrived  at  the  beginning  of  May. 
When  June  came,  I  was  able  to  take  Emily  Elizabeth 
out  to  market.  Every  morning  we  went  down  the 
Boulevard  Raspail  to  Sadla's,  on  the  corner  of  the  Rue 
de  Sevres,  and  twice  a  week  to  the  market  on  the  Boule- 
vard Edgar-Quinet.  They  were  the  blessed  days,  when 
I  had  no  cook — which  meant  that  I  could  buy  what  I 
liked  to  eat,  and  no  nurse — which  meant  that  I  saw 
something  of  my  own  children.  Servants  are  a  neces- 
sary evil  to  the  housewife  and  mother  that  wants  to  see 
something  of  the  world  in  which  she  lives.  But  an 
occasional  interlude,  when  everything  devolves  on 
mother,  is  good  both  for  her  and  the  children. 

During  the  war  Sadla's  went  bankrupt,  and  for  sev- 
eral years  the  corner  opposite  the  Hotel  Lutetia  has 
been  desolate.  Probably  the  firm  failed  for  the  very 
reason  that  made  it  unique  among  the  provision-shops 
even  of  Paris,  where  the  selling  of  food  is  as  much  a 
work  of  art  as  the  cooking  of  it.  We  loved  Sadla's. 
Marketing  there  was  always  a  joy.  Your  baby-car- 
riage was  not  an  inconvenience:  for  everything  was 
displayed  outside  on  the  street.  You  started  with  fish 
and  ended  with  fruit  and  flowers,  passing  by  meats  and 
vegetables,  canned  goods,  groceries,  pastry,  cakes  and 

196 


CHILDHOOD  VISTAS  FOR  A  NEW  GENERATION 

candies.  The  fish  swam  in  a  marble  basin  under  a 
fountain.  You  made  your  choice,  and  the  victim  was 
netted  by  a  white-clad  boy  and  flopped  over  the  counter 
to  the  scales.  Live  lobsters  sprawled  in  sea-weed,  and 
boiled  ones  lay  on  ice.  Oysters  from  fifty  centimes  to 
five  francs  a  dozen  were  packed  in  wicker  baskets, 
passed  by  their  guardian  every  few  minutes  under  the 
fountain.  In  the  hors  d'asuvres  and  cold  meat  section, 
you  had  your  choice  of  the  cheapest  and  the  most  ex- 
pensive variety  of  tempting  morsels.  It  made  no  dif- 
ference if  you  wanted  a  little  chicken  wing  or  a  big 
turkey  encased  in  truffle-studded  jelly,  a  slice  of  ham  or 
a  whole  Yorkshire  quarter,  one  pickle  or  a  hundred, 
twenty  centimes  worth  of  salade  Russe  or  an  earthen- 
ware dishful  arranged  like  an  Italian  garden  landscape, 
one  radish  or  a  bunch  of  them.  In  Paris  everybody  is 
accustomed  to  purchasing  things  to  eat  and  drink  of  the 
best  quality:  so  you  do  not  feel  that  the  quality  of 
what  you  want  depends  upon  the  quantity  you  ask  for. 
On  the  meat  counters,  for  instance,  single  chops,  and 
tiny  cutlets  and  roasts,  and  chickens  of  all  sizes,  are  dis- 
played side  by  side,  each  with  its  price  marked.  Ap- 
ples, pears,  tomatoes,  bananas,  even  plums,  are  price- 
marked  by  the  piece.  Tarts  and  cakes  are  of  all  sizes. 
When  you  come  to  flowers,  you  can  buy  single  roses  or 
carnations.  I  never  tired  of  shopping  at  Sadla's.  Nor 
did  the  children. 

Vegetables  and  fruits  and  nuts  are  mostly  bought  in 

197 


PARIS  VISTAS 

the  open  markets  or  from  the  marchandes  des  quatre  sai- 
sonS)  who  deal  also  in  dairy  products  and  poultry  and 
flowers.  The  markets  are  held  on  certain  days  in  dif- 
ferent quarters.  The  women  with  push-carts  line  the 
streets  every  day.  They  go  early  in  the  morning  to  the 
Halles  Centrales  and  buy  whatever  they  find  is  the 
bargain  of  the  day,  and  hawk  in  their  own  quarter,  an- 
nouncing their  merchandise  by  queer  cries  that  even  to 
the  well-trained  ear  of  the  French  woman  need  a  glance 
at  the  push-cart  to  confirm  what  is  at  the  best  a  guess. 
It  is  fun  to  buy  on  the  street,  and  the  commodities 
and  price  are  sometimes  an  irresistible  temptation. 
But  you  have  to  watch  the  marchandes  des  quatre  sai- 
sons.  They  have  a  way  of  throwing  your  purchase  on 
the  scales  in  the  manner  of  an  American  iceman,  and 
you  want  to  be  ready  to  put  out  your  hand  to  steady 
the  needle.  Your  eye  must  be  sharp  too,  to  watch  that 
some  of  the  apples  do  not  come,  wormy  and  spotted, 
from  a  less  desirable  layer  underneath  the  selling  layer. 
It  is  a  wonderful  lesson  in  learning  how  to  put  the  best 
foot  forward  to  watch  the  push-cart  women  arranging 
their  wares  on  the  side-walks  around  the  Halles  Cen- 
trales before  starting  out  on  the  daily  round.  From 
the  writings  of  Carlyle  and  other  seekers  after  the  pic- 
turesque, the  legend  has  grown  that  the  poissonnieres, 
who  knitted  before  the  guillotine,  are  a  race  apart. 
But  there  is  as  much  truth  in  this  belief  as  in  the  belief 
that  our  gallant  marines  did  the  trick  alone  at  Chateau- 

198 


CHILDHOOD  VISTAS  FOR  A  NEW  GENERATION 

Thierry.  Fish  women  are  no  more  formidable  among 
Parisiennes  than  the  general  run  of  marchandes  des 
quatre  saisons.  And  ask  almost  anyone  who  has  lived 
in  a  Paris  apartment  about  her  concierge ! 

Fresh  from  Montenegro,  Herbert  reached  our  new 
home  on  the  morning  of  July  fourteenth.  He  ex- 
plained that  he  had  left  the  Greeks  and  Serbians  and 
Bulgarians  to  fight  over  the  Turkish  spoils  to  their 
heart's  content.  He  was  sick  of  following  wars.  He 
wanted  to  see  his  new  baby.  It  had  come  over  him  one 
night  in  Albania,  when  sleeplessness  was  due  to  the 
usual  cause  in  that  part  of  the  world,  that  by  catching 
a  certain  boat  from  Cattaro  to  Venice  he  could  get  home 
for  the  Quatorze. 

After  he  had  looked  over  his  new  acquisition,  we 
started  out  for  a  stroll  by  ourselves  just  to  talk  things 
over.  We  walked  down  the  Boulevard  Montparnasse 
to  the  Place  de  1'Observatoire.  Between  the  Closerie 
des  Lilas  and  the  Bal  Bullier  was  a  big  merry-go-round. 
The  onlookers  were  throwing  multi-colored  streamers 
at  the  girls  they  liked  the  best  among  the  riders.  In 
the  middle  of  the  street  a  strong  man  in  pink  tights  was 
doing  stunts  with  dumb-bells  and  the  members  of  his 
family. 

The  same  thought  came  to  us  both.  What  a  pity  the 
children  are  missing  this !  We  hurried  back  for  them, 
forgetting  that  we  had  promised  ourselves  a  long  Just- 
us talk  to  bridge  the  months  of  separation.  And  we  re- 

199 


PARIS  VISTAS 

turned  to  join  in  the  celebration,  my  husband  pushing 
the  baby-carriage  and  I  with  progeny  hanging  to  both 
hands.  Why  do  children  drag  so,  even  when  you  are 
walking  slowly*?  Every  mother  knows  how  they  lean 
on  her  literally  as  well  as  figuratively. 

That  Quatorze  was  the  beginning  of  a  new  epoch. 
A  new  generation  was  to  have  childhood  vistas  of  Paris, 
but  parent-led  and  parent-shown,  as  it  had  been  for 
me  thirty  years  before.  For  that  is  the  way  of  the 
world. 


200 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE    PROBLEM    OF    HOUSING 

WHEN  you  are  in  Paris  without  children  you  can 
get  along  in  a  hotel  or  a  pension:  and  you  can 
probably  live  as  cheaply  as,  if  not  more  cheaply  than, 
in  a  home  of  your  own.  There  are  several  combina- 
tions. Inexpensive  rooms  (in  normal  times)  can  be 
found  in  good  hotels :  and  there  are  lots  of  hotels  that 
take  only  roomers.  You  do  not,  as  at  a  pension,  have 
to  be  tied  down  to  at  least  two  meals  where  you  live. 
The  advantages  of  a  furnished-room  or  a  pension  are: 
easy  to  find  in  the  quarter  you  wish  to  live  in ;  no  bother 
about  service;  and  no  necessity  to  tie  yourself  up  with  a 
lease.  But  if  you  are  making  a  protracted  stay,  it  is 
wise  to  weigh  at  the  beginning  the  disadvantages  with 
the  advantages.  You  get  tired  of  the  food;  you  have 
to  associate  daily  with  people  whom  you  do  not  like; 
and — especially  if  you  are  of  my  sex — you  have  no 
place  to  receive  your  friends.  I  think  in  the  end  most 
people  who  go  to  Paris  and  who  follow  the  line  of  least 
resistance,  either  because  it  is  that  or  because  they  have 
the  idea  that  they  can  learn  French  quicker  in  a  "French 
pension"  regret  having  missed  the  opportunity  of  a 

201 


PARIS  VISTAS 

home  of  their  own,  of  a  cJiez  soi,  as  the  French  say. 
For  you  really  cannot  feel  that  you  belong  in  Paris 
unless  you  are  keeping  house.  "Be  it  ever  so  humble," 
you  can  set  up  your  own  home,  if  you  are  determined 
to  do  so.  There  are  innumerable  wee  apartments — a 
hall  big  enough  to  hang  up  your  coat  and  hat,  a  kitchen- 
ette, and  a  room  where  your  bed  can  be  a  couch  dis- 
guised with  a  rug  and  pillows  during  the  day.  Studios 
furnish  another  -opportunity  of  making  a  home  of  your 
own.  Of  course,  during  the  war  and  since  Paris  has 
been  overcrowded.  But  there  will  be  a  return  to  nor- 
mal conditions. 

And  if  you  have  a  family — even  one  baby — hotel  or 
pension  life  becomes  unendurable. 

When  Herbert  came  back  from  Turkey  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1913,  we  found  the  three  little  rooms  and 
kitchen  of  Thirty-eight  Rue  du  Montparnasse  too  small 
for  us.  The  first  thing  Herbert  did  was  to  "give  no- 
tice." The  Paris  system  of  renting  is  very  advanta- 
geous if  one  is  looking  for  a  modest  apartment.  Your 
lease  is  by  the  term — a  term  being  three  months — and 
can  be  canceled  upon  giving  one  term's  notice.  This 
means  that  you're  tied  down  for  only  six  months  in  the 
beginning,  and  after  that  for  only  three  months.  One 
can  buy  simple  furniture,  as  we  did  in  the  Rue  Servan- 
doni,  and  sell  it  at  the  end  of  the  year  without  a  great 
loss.  It  is  possible  to  rent  an  apartment  for  a  year,  fur- 
nish it  and  sell  out,  at  about  the  same  price  you  would 

202 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  HOUSING 

pay  for  a  furnished  apartment.  And  you  will  have  had 
the  pleasure  of  being  surrounded  by  your  own  things. 

The  proposition  of  a  furnished  apartment  looks  bet- 
ter than  it  is.  The  French  are  the  worst  people  in  the 
world  for  biting  a  penny.  They  are  meticulous  to  a 
point  incomprehensible  to  Americans.  The  inventory 
is  a  horror!  In  taking  a  villa,  whether  it  be  in  Brit- 
tany, in  Normandy,  at  Aix-les-Bains,  or  on  the  Riviera, 
you  are  handed  sheets  of  paper  by  the  arm's  length,  on 
which  are  recorded  not  only  the  objects  in  each  room 
but  the  state  of  walls,  garden,  woodwork,  carpets,  mat- 
tresses, pillows  and  blankets.  You  wrestle  with  the 
agent  when  you  enter.  But  he  is  cleverer  than  you  are. 
And  when  you  come  to  leave,  he  finds  spots  and  cracks, 
nicks  in  the  china,  ink-stains,  and  all  sorts  of  damages 
you  never  thought  of.  He  points  to  your  signature — 
and  you  pay !  You  replace  what  is  broken  or  chipped 
by  new  objects.  You  repaint  and  repaper  and  clean. 
The  bill  is  as  long  as  the  inventory.  And  you  find  that 
your  original  rent  is  simply  an  item. 

I  do  not  want  to  infer  that  you  are  entirely  free  from 
this  annoyance  and  uncertain  item  of  expense  when  you 
lease  unfurnished.  Your  walls  and  ceilings  and  floors, 
your  mirrors  (which  in  France  are  an  integral  part  of 
the  building)  and  your  charges  are  to  be  considered. 
An  architect,  if  you  please,  draws  up  the  etat  des  lieux, 
which  you  are  required  to  sign  as  you  do  the  inventoire 
of  a  furnished  apartment.  But  the  longer  you  remain 

203 


PARIS  VISTAS 

in  an  apartment  the  less  proportionately  to  your  rent 
are  the  damages  liable  to  be.  As  for  the  charges,  by 
which  is  meant  your  share  towards  the  carpets  in  the 
halls  and  on  the  stairs,  the  lighting,  elevator,  etc.,  in 
many  leases  they  are  now  represented  by  a  fixed  sum, 
and  where  they  are  not,  you  can  have  a  pretty  definite 
idea  as  to  what  they  are  going  to  be.  The  unexpected 
does  not  hit  you. 

Most  Paris  leases  are  on  the  3-6-9  year  basis.  You 
sign  for  three  years.  If  you  do  not  give  notice  six 
months  before  the  end  of  the  three-year  term,  the  lease 
is  automatically  continued  for  another  equal  period. 
For  nine  years,  then,  you  are  sure  of  undisturbed  posses- 
sion, and  your  proprietaire  cannot  raise  the  rent  on  you. 
Leases  are  generally  uniform  in  their  clauses.  You 
bind  yourself  to  put  furniture  to  the  value  of  at  least 
one  year's  rent  in  the  apartment  to  live  in  it  bourgeoise- 
ment  (that  is,  to  carry  on  no  business),  to  keep  no 
dogs  or  other  pets,1  and  to  sublet  only  with  proprietor's 
consent.  On  his  side,  the  proprietor  agrees  to  give  you 

i  This  clause  is  a  dead  letter  almost  everywhere.  You  are  much 
more  apt  to  be  refused  an  apartment  because  you  have  children  than 
because  you  have  dogs  or  birds.  In  fact,  although  you  often  see  a 
sign  or  are  greeted  by  the  statement  NI  CHIENS  NI  ENFANTS, 
the  prohibition,  when  you  press  the  concierge,  is  limited  to  children. 
My  bitter  criticism  of  the  people  among  whom  I  live  is  the  attitude 
of  a  large  part  of  them  towards  children.  They  do  not  like  chil- 
dren. They  do  not  want  them.  And  they  do  not  understand  why 
any  woman  is  fool  enough  to  have  "a  big  family,"  as  they  call  my 
four.  This  is  the  most  serious  problem  of  contemporary  France. 
It  makes  the  winning  of  the  war  a  hollow  victory. 

204 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  HOUSING 

proper  concierge  and  elevator  service,  to  heat  the  apart- 
ment for  five  months  from  November  first  to  March 
thirty-first,  and  to  furnish  water,  hot  and  cold,  at  fixed 
rates  per  cubic  meter.  The  lease  is  registered  at  the 
mairie  at  the  locataire's  expense. 

You  pay  the  taxes,  which  are  collected  directly  from 
you.  The  municipal  tax  runs  to  about  sixteen  percent 
of  the  annual  rental,  and  now  includes  in  a  lump  sum 
the  old  taxes  for  windows  and  doors.  In  addition,  you 
pay  a  very  small  tax  to  recompense  the  city  for  having 
suppressed  the  octroi  on  wines  and  liquors  and  mineral 
waters.  A  new  tax,  which  no  resident  in  France  who 
has  an  apartment  can  escape,  is  the  income  tax.  But 
unless  you  are  a  French  subject,  you  are  not  compelled 
to  make  a  return  of  your  sources  of  income.  Should 
you  choose  to  be  taxed  d' office,  the  collector  assesses  }  ju 
on  a  basis  of  having  an  income  seven  times  the  amount 
of  your  rental.  The  concierge  is  forbidden  to  allow 
you  to  move  from  your  apartment  until  you  have 
shown  him  the  receipts  for  the  current  year  for  all  your 
taxes. 

Once  you  have  signed  your  lease  and  have  arranged 
to  move  in,  your  troubles  are  not  yet  over.  Proprietors 
furnish  no  chandeliers  or  other  lights,  not  even  the  sim- 
plest. You  have  to  go  to  an  electrician,  buy  your  fix- 
tures, and  have  them  installed,  if  you  have  not  bought 
the  lights  in  the  apartment  from  the  previous  locataire. 
You  must  sign  contracts  and  make  deposits  for  your  gas 

205 


PARIS  VISTAS 

and  electric  light.  The  gas  company  will  rent  you  a 
stove  and  a  meter.  You  pay  the  charges  for  connect- 
ing you  up.  Telephones  are  in  the  hands  of  the  gov- 
ernment. If  you  want  a  direct  telephone,  you  have  to 
sign  a  contract.  If  you  want  to  have  your  telephone 
through  the  concierge's  loge,  the  telephone  service  is 
charged  on  your  quarterly  rent  bill.  In  any  case,  you 
pay  for  the  instrument  and  bell  box  and  the  charges 
for  installation.  A  private  line  is  not  much  of  an 
advantage  in  Paris.  The  service  is  scarcely  any 
quicker.  With  your  telephone  by  way  of  the  concierge, 
a  message  can  be  left  if  you  do  not  answer,  and  the 
person  calling  you  is  informed  if  you  are  out  of  town. 
The  last  of  your  troubles  is  fire  insurance.  Thanks 
to  the  solid  construction  of  Paris  and  careful  sur- 
veillance, fires  are  very  rare.  During  all  the  years  I 
have  lived  in  Paris  I  remember  no  fires  except  those 
caused  by  the  German  bombs.  However,  you  do  not 
dare  not  to  insure.  For  French  law  holds  you  respon- 
sible for  damage  to  neighbors'  apartments  from  water 
as  well  as  fire,  if  the  fire  starts  in  yours.  Your  insur- 
ance policy  insures  your  neighbors  as  well  as  yourself. 
The  French  law  is  excellent.  It  makes  you  careful. 
French  law,  also,  by  the  way,  holds  you  liable  for  acci- 
dents to  your  servants,  of  any  kind  and  no  matter  how 
incurred.  You  cannot  fall  back  on  the  joker  of  con- 
tributory carelessness.  All  the  servant  has  to  prove  is 
that  the  accident  happened  while  working  for  you. 

206 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  HOUSING 

I  have  forgotten  to  mention  one  further  formality 
that  was  not  of  importance  before  the  war  but  is  indis- 
pensable now.  An  old  French  police  law  requires  all 
foreigners  to  secure  a  certificat  d'immatriculation  from 
the  Prefecture  of  Police  as  the  sine  qua  non  to  residence 
in  Paris.  Before  the  war,  no  one  ever  bothered  about 
this.  The  only  foreigners  watched  by  the  police  were 
Russians,  due  to  a  provision  France  ought  never  to 
have  agreed  to  in  the  alliance  with  Russia.  When  the 
war  broke  out  and  my  husband  went  to  get  his  permis 
de  sejour,  he  was  asked  for  the  first  time  for  this  paper. 
And  we  had  been  living  in  France  on  and  off  for  six 
years,  and  had  leased  three  apartments!  This  was  a 
reason  for  loving  Paris.  Nobody  bothered  you,  and 
you  could  live  as  you  pleased  and  do  as  you  pleased  so 
long  as  you  behaved  yourself.  Foreigners  were  never 
made  to  feel  that  they  were  foreigners.  They  enjoyed 
equality  before  the  law  with  Frenchmen.  Paris  was 
cosmopolite  in  a  unique  sense.  Hindsight  blamed  the 
laxity  of  the  French  police.  But  let  us  fervently  hope 
that  the  old  spirit  of  hospitality  may  not  have  changed 
with  the  war  and  that  France  in  regard  to  Germany 
may  not  be  as  Rome  in  regard  to  Greece.  Why  be 
victor  if  one  has  to  adopt  the  habits  of  the  vanquished? 

I  have  gone  into  the  question  of  the  housing  problem 
with  too  much  precision  and  detail,  I  fear,  for  a  book 
of  Paris  sketches.  But  so  many  friends  have  asked 
me,  so  many  strangers  have  written  me,  about  taking 

207 


PARIS  VISTAS 

up  their  abode  in  Paris  that  I  feel  what  I  have  said 
about  it  will  be  of  interest  to  all  who  are  interested  in 
Paris. 

We  had  three  months  to  our  new  residence.  You 
always  have  three  months  at  least  in  Paris.  It  is  not 
enough  if  you  are  undecided  or  lazy.  It  is  plenty  if 
you  go  about  hunting  for  a  home  with  the  same  energy 
and  persistence  and  enthusiasm  that  you  put  into  other 
things.  After  all,  what  is  more  important  than  a 
home*?  We  tramped  the  quarter,  as  we  had  done  in 
the  summer  of  1909.  But  we  now  had  a  large  family. 
And  we  had  realized  the  fundamental  truth  of  the 
beautiful  old  Scotch  saying,  "Every  bairn  brings  its 
food  wi'  it."  So  we  were  able  to  aspire  to  two  salons 
and  three  bedrooms,  to  confort  moderne  (which  means 
central  heat,  electric  light,  bath-rooms,  elevator  and  hot 
water),  and  to  palms  and  red  carpet  in  the  doorway. 

For  us  the  heart  of  Paris  at  that  time  was  where  the 
Boulevard  du  Montparnasse  is  crossed  by  the  Boulevard 
Raspail.  On  the  Boulevard  du  Montparnasse,  be- 
tween Baty's  and  the  Rue  Leopold-Robert,  a  new 
apartment  house  was  being  built.  Before  the  stairs 
were  finished  we  climbed  to  the  sixth  floor,  lost  our 
hearts  to  a  view  of  all  Paris,  and  signed  a  3-6-9  lease. 
The  war  has  come  and  gone.  We  are  still  there. 


208 


1914 


CHAPTER  XXI 

"NACH  PARIS!" 

VON  KLUCK  and  I  had  a  race  to  see  who  would 
reach  Paris  first.  It  was  close.  But  I  won. 
Lots  of  my  friends  thought  then  and  since  that  I  was 
foolish  to  take  my  children  back  to  Paris  at  such  a  time. 
An  American  woman  came  to  Ty  Coz,  my  little  summer 
cottage  at  Saint-Jean-du-Doigt  in  Finistere,  to  remon- 
strate with  me. 

"You  must  be  crazy,"  she  said  in  her  most  compli- 
mentary tone,  "to  take  those  three  children  back  to 
Paris  now.  The  Germans  are  certainly  going  to  cap- 
ture Paris,  and  if  they  don't  do  it  right  away,  they  '11 
bombard  the  city  until  it  surrenders.  My  dear  Mrs. 
Gibbons,  surely  you  read  the  papers  and  you  see  what 
awful  things  the  Germans  are  doing  in  Belgium.  Paris 
has  no  chance  against  their  big  guns.  And  they  will 
cut  the  railways.  You  will  have  no  milk,  no  vege- 
tables. And  here  you  are  in  Brittany,  where  they 
probably  will  not  come,  and  if  you  do,  you  can  get  off 
to  England  by  sea." 

I  did  not  argue.  It  would  have  been  foolish  to  tell 
her  that  the  Germans  would  not  take  Paris.  I  was  no 
prophet,  and  denying  a  danger  is  not  preventing  it. 

211 


PARIS  VISTAS 

Despite  the  tigress  instinct  of  every  mother  to  protect 
her  own,  I  simply  could  not  feel  that  to  go  home  was 
the  wrong  thing  to  do.  Herbert  wrote  and  telegraphed 
approving  my  desire  to  return.  As  my  husband  could 
not  leave  Paris  to  come  to  us,  it  was  manifestly  up  to 
us  to  go  to  him.  We  were  more  concerned  about  the 
possibility  of  being  cut  off  from  each  other  than  about 
what  the  Germans  might  do  to  us.  I  had  one  advan- 
tage in  making  up  my  mind  over  other  women  around 
me.  War  and  sieges  and  bombardments  did  not  loom 
up  when  I  read  about  the  march  through  Belgium  with 
the  same  sense  of  awfulness  as  to  my  neighbors.  I 
knew  that  things  look  worse  from  a  distance  than  they 
are  on  the  spot.  I  remembered  how  normally  we  lived 
in  the  midst  of  massacre  in  Tarsus  and  when  the  Bul- 
garians were  attacking  Constantinople. 

The  removal  of  the  Government  to  Bordeaux  did  not 
deter  me  at  the  last  minute.  It  did  not  seem  to  me  an 
indication  that  the  game  was  up,  but  rather  the  deci- 
sion to  profit  by  experience  of  earlier  wars  and  not 
stake  the  whole  war  upon  the  defense  of  the  capital. 
It  was  getting  cold  at  the  seashore.  I  was  anxious  to 
direct  myself  the  moving  into  the  new  apartment  we 
had  taken.  Yvonne,  my  cook,  and  Dorothy,  my 
English  nurse,  were  as  eager  as  I  to  get  back  to  town. 
We  just  did  n't  let  the  Germans  bother  us !  The 
trunks  and  baby-beds  were  loaded  in  one  two-wheeled 
cart  and  the  kiddies  on  hay  in  another.  We  grown-ups 

212 


"NACH  PARIS!" 

bicycled  along  behind  the  seventeen  kilometres  to  Mor- 
laix.  The  Brest  rapide  carried  scarcely  any  civilians. 
We  broke  in  on  the  seclusion  of  a  colonel  sitting  alone 
in  a  compartment. 

"I  pity  you,  sir,"  I  said. 

"Why?"  He  smiled  and  threw  away  his  news- 
paper. That  was  promising.  When  a  man  puts  down 
his  newspaper  for  me,  I  know  he  is  interesting.  So 
few  men  do.  My  husband  does  n't  always.  I  needed 
to  make  friends  with  the  officer.  During  the  all  night 
journey  I  wanted  to  manoeuvre  for  open  windows,  and 
you  cannot  do  that  in  France  unless  you  are  on  the 
best  of  terms  with  your  fellow-travellers. 

"Why  do  I  pity  you"?  Because  you  are  invaded  by 
three  babies  and  three  grown-ups  when  you  hoped  to 
keep  the  compartment  for  yourself.  But  you  may  not 
be  sorry  when  you  see  the  supper  you  are  going  to  help 
eat — two  roast  chickens,  salad  sandwiches,  pears  just 
picked  this  morning  in  my  garden,  and  the  best  of 
cider.  There  is  plenty  of  cafe  au  lait  in  thermos  bottles 
for  breakfast." 

The  colonel's  face  brightened.  Dining-cars  had  been 
suppressed  since  the  day  of  the  mobilization.  He 
assured  me  that  a  soldier  did  not  mind  company  at 
night  and  always  liked  food.  But  he  was  a  bit 
puzzled  about  my  breakfast  invitation.  "Surely  you 
are  not  going  to  Paris  with  these  children,"  he  said. 
"Are  you  not  afraid?" 

213 


PARIS  VISTAS 

"Not  as  long  as  there  is  the  French  army  between 
my  children  and  the  'enemy,"  I  answered. 

The  colonel  leaned  back  in  the  corner  and  shut  his 
eyes.  Tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks.  It  was  a  long 
time  before  he  spoke,  and  all  he  said  was,  "Merci!  I 
shall  tell  that  to  my  regiment  to-morrow." 

"Monsieur,"  I  insisted,  "what  I  said  was  nothing. 
All  the  women  in  France  feel  as  I  do.  We  have  got  to 
feel  that  way.  You  have  the  strength — we  must  have 
the  faith.  If  Paris  were  not  my  home,  I  should  not  go. 
But  it  is  my  home,  and  this  is  the  week  I  always  return 
from  the  shore." 

More  than  one  hysterical  person  wrote  wonderful 
and  lurid  accounts  of  Paris  in  the  autumn  of  1914. 
There  was  an  exodus  of  froussards  in  the  first  days  of 
September  and  during  the  whole  month  refugees 
poured  into  the  city.  But  the  great  mass  of  the  popula- 
tion was  not  affected  by  the  fright  of  a  few.  I  arrived 
too  late  for  the  most  critical  days.  My  husband  as- 
sured me  that  there  had  been  no  panic  except  in  the 
imagination  of  certain  individuals  and  officials.  I 
found  that  very  few  of  my  friends  had  run  away.  The 
Herald  appeared  every  morning,  and  Percy  Mitchell's 
voice  over  the  telephone  from  the  Rue  du  Louvre  was 
cheery  and  optimistic.  There  was  no  funk  in  the 
American  colony.  Most  of  the  people  I  knew  were 
helping  get  the  Ambulance  at  Neuilly  started  or  were 
launching  ceuvres  of  their  own.  I  seized  on  the  open- 

214 


"NACH  PARIS!" 

ing  for  layette  work  immediately,  and  I  started  after- 
noon sewing  for  Russian  and  Polish  girls,  too,  in  one  of 
my  servants'  rooms.  I  am  a  quarrelsome  wretch  when 
I  get  on  committees  with  other  women.  So  I  did  the 
layettes  alone  in  my  studio  and  had  only  the  help  of 
another  Bryn  Mawr  girl,  who  lived  in  Paris,  in  the 
ouvroir — as  gatherings  for  sewing  were  called. 

But  the  panic*?  The  sense  of  danger"?  Suspense 
and  worry  over  the  fighting  between  the  Marne  and 
Aisne?  Dread  of  air  raids'?  I  saw  none  of  this.  I 
heard  nothing  in  the  conversation  of  my  friends  or  ser- 
vants or  tradespeople  to  make  me  feel  Paris  was  in  a 
ferment  of  excitement  or  fear.  The  anxiety  was  for 
loved  ones  fighting  "out  there" ;  the  depression  was  the 
pall  of  death  over  us.  No  music,  no  singing,  theatres 
closed,  cafes  shut  up  at  eight  o'clock,  dark  streets — 
these  were  the  abnormal  features  of  Paris  life  in  the 
early  months  of  the  war.  Whoever  writes  or  talks  in 
a  way  to  make  it  appear  that  staying  in  Paris  was  a 
test  of  personal  courage  is  a  sorry  impostor.  There  was 
no  danger.  None  ever  thought  of  danger. 

Nor  did  we  have  the  discomforts  and  annoyances  and 
deprivations  during  the  early  period  of  the  war  that 
came  to  us  later.  Food  was  abundant  and  prices  did 
not  go  up.  There  was  plenty  of  labor.  You  could 
get  things  done  without  the  exhausting  hunt  for  workers 
with  a  willing  spirit  and  knowledge  of  their  job  that 
we  have  to  make  now.  In  the  month  of  the  Battle  of 

215 


PARIS  VISTAS 

the  Marne  we  moved  into  120  Boulevard  du  Mont- 
parnasse.  It  was  «a  new  house,  and  we  had  everything 
to  think  of,  plumbing,  heating,  fixtures,  wiring  for  bells 
and  lights,  painting,  paper-hanging,  carpentering.  All 
was  done  without  a  hitch.  The  moving-vans  worked 
as  in  peace  times.  Things  came  by  freight  from 
Brittany  and  Normandy — thirty  boxes  in  all — and 
were  delivered  to  us  without  delay  just  as  if  there  were 
no  war.  It  seems  incredible  in  retrospect  that  France 
and  Paris  should  have  been  normal  (after  the  first  con- 
fusion of  the  mobilization)  despite  the  terrific  struggle 
for  existence  within  hearing  distance.  But  it  was  so. 
I  want  to  put  down  my  testimony  as  a  housewife  and 
mother  of  children  in  Paris  that  we  lived  normally  and 
had  no  dangers  or  difficulties  to  contend  with  when  the 
Germans  were  trying  to  finish  up  the  war  in  a  hurry. 

On  the  second  Sunday  of  October  we  had  our  first 
visit  from  a  group  of  airplanes.  Few  bombs  were 
dropped.  Herbert  and  I  were  walking  outside  the 
fortifications  near  the  Porte  d'Orleans  when  they  ar- 
rived. We  thought  of  our  kiddies,  playing  in  the 
Luxembourg,  and  hurried  there.  The  children  and 
Dorothy  described  graphically  how  two  planes  had  been 
over  the  Garden.  But  their  feeling  was  wholly 
curiosity.  At  that  time  Parisians  did  not  realize  the 
danger  of  air  raids. 

One  Sunday  Herbert  and  I  went  chestnutting.  De- 
spite the  swarms  of  excursionists  around  Paris,  there 

216 


"NACH  PARIS!" 

are  lots  of  places  to  pick  up  on  the  road  all  the  chest- 
nuts you  can  carry.  We  walked  from  Saint-Cyr  across 
country,  skirting  Versailles,  to  Marly.  With  heavy 
pockets,  knotted  kerchief  bundles,  and  the  beginning 
of  stiffness  in  our  backs,  we  stopped  for  lunch  at  a  little 
country  hostelry  whose  cave  still  has  a  big  stock  of 
Chambertin  of  golden  years.  The  critic  and  I  are 
agreed  upon  the  wisdom  of  censoring  the  name  I  un- 
thinkingly put  in  the  first  draft  of  this  chapter.  Why 
spoil  a  good  thing"?  Life  is  short — and  so  are  stocks 
of  Chambertin.  And  there  are  so  many  roads  and  so 
many  hostelries  between  Saint-Cyr  and  Saint-Germain- 
en-Laye  that  the  little  I  have  said  is  a  challenge  to  your 
love  of  Burgundy. 

Madame  told  us  how  history  did  not  repeat  itself 
until  the  end  of  the  story.  What  starts  the  same  way 
does  not  always  end  the  same  way.  We  hope  German 
professors  of  history  will  impress  this  truth  upon  the 
next  generation  of  their  close-cropped,  bullet-headed 
students.  They  are  at  liberty  to  use  this  illustration 
if  they  want.  Why  limit  their  Paris  vistas  to  the 
provoking  sight  of  the  Tour  Eiffel  in  the  distance? 

"In  Soixante-Dix,"  said  Madame,  flipping  teamsters' 
crumbs  off  our  table  with  a  skilful  swing  of  her 
serviette,  "I  saw  my  father  bury  our  wines  out  there  in 
the  garden.  It  took  several  days,  and  he  had  only  my 
brother  and  me  to  help  him.  I  remember  how  he 
mumbled  and  shook  his  head  over  the  possible  effect  of 

217 


PARIS  VISTAS 

disturbing  the  good  crus.  'They  will  never  be  the  same 
again,'  he  said  mournfully.  Much  good  it  did  him! 
We  had  our  work  for  nothing.  The  Germans  came. 
Right  where  you  are  sitting,  M'sieu-dame,  the  brutes 
thumped  on  the  table  and  called  for  the  best  in  the 
cellar.  My  father  said  he  had  no  wine.  They  went 
to  the  cave.  Empty.  Then  the  officer  laughed  till 
the  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks.  He  sat  in  a  chair — 
sprawled  in  a  chair  that  cracked  under  his  swinging — 
smacked  his  thighs,  and  when  he  could  speak,  he  told 
his  men  to  go  out  into  the  garden.  With  their  picks 
and  shovels  they  unearthed  all — all,  M'sieu-dame. 

"So  this  time  I  remembered — and  I  thought  hard. 
My  husband  was  off  the  fourth  day  of  the  mobilization. 
Even  if  I  had  help,  would  not  the  garden  cache  a  second 
time  be  foolish?  And  the  old  crus  ought  not  to  be 
shaken — you  are  going  to  taste  my  Chambertin,  and 
you  will  agree  that  it  ought  not  to  risk  being  shaken. 
It  really  ought  not.  What  was  I  to  do?  When  the 
Germans  come,  will  they  know  the  difference?  I  asked 
myself.  So  I  took  vin  ordinaire.  I  put  it  in  bottles. 
I  sealed  it  red.  I  worked  two  days  to  put  it  on  the 
outer  racks  and  the  under  racks  with  the  good  wine 
between.  Then  I  cobwebbed  it  and  moistened  it  with 
dust.  I  built  a  fire  to  dry  it.  If  the  Germans  were  in 
a  hurry  they  would  take  the  top.  If  they  had  leisure, 
they  would  fish  in  the  bottom  rows. 

"But  the  Germans  never  came.  I  had  my  work  a 

218 


"NACH  PARIS!" 

second  time  for  nothing.  Do  you  think,  M' sieu-dame, 
they  will  be  fooled1?  I  want  to  know  what  is  best  for 
next  time." 

"Next  time,"  cried  my  husband.  "Next  time !  Do 
you  think  there  will  be  a  next  time?" 

"Bien  sur.  Monsieur,"  the  woman  answered  without 
hesitation.  "The  Germans  will  come  again.  They 
will  always  come.  We  are  not  as  big,  kelas!  They 
will  come — unless  your  country — *?" 

Suddenly  we  realized  that  not  the  keeper  of  the 
inn,  but  France,  France  through  a  wife  and  mother, 
was  speaking.  A  shadow  fell  upon  us  that  Chambertin 
and  the  crisp  autumn  air  could  not  dispel. 


21Q 


1914-1915 


\ 


CHAPTER  XXII 

AT    HOME    IN    THE    WHIRLWIND 

AFTER  the  initial  days  of  mobilization,  the  Ger- 
man advance,  the  coming  of  the  refugees,  and  the 
aeroplane  raids,  Paris  became  again  astonishingly 
normal.  We  got  used  to  the  war  quickly.  A  calamity 
is  like  death.  It  comes.  You  cannot  change  it.  You 
must  accept  it  and  go  on  living.  We  were  in  the  midst 
of  the  whirlwind.  We  had  our  ups  and  downs. 
There  were  periods  of  unreasonable  hope,  when  we 
thought  the  war  was  going  to  end  by  the  collapse  of  the 
Germans.  And  there  were  periods  of  equally  unreason- 
ing depression  when  gloom  spread  like  a  plague.  Who 
will  ever  forget  the  hope  that  came  with  the  Spring  of 
1915*?  Mysterious  rumors  spread  of  German  de- 
moralization and  of  the  irresistible  fighting  machine 
the  British  were  building  up.  Our  armies  were  only 
waiting  for  the  rainy  weather  to  finish.  Then  the 
forward  march  would  commence.  But  after  a  few 
unsuccessful  attempts  to  break  through,  French  and 
British  settled  down  to  the  life  of  the  trenches.  For- 
tunately the  Germans  were  equally  immobilized.  But 
during  the  summer,  instead  of  our  advance  on  the 

223 


PARIS  VISTAS 

western  front,  we  had  to  read  about  the  German  ad- 
vance in  Poland.  The  censorship  worked  overtime. 
Communiques  were  masterpieces  of  clever  dissimula- 
tion. News  was  withheld  in  the  hope  of  a  sudden  re- 
versal of  the  fortune  of  arms.  In  the  end  we  had  to  be 
told  that  Warsaw  was  in  the  hands  of  the  Central 
Empires  and  that  les  Imperiaux  were  closing  in  on 
Brest-Litovsk.  In  the  summer  of  1915,  at  the  very 
beginning  of  the  Italian  intervention,  the  French  lost 
faith  in  the  new  ally.  Italy,  untouched  so  far  by  the 
war  and  with  the  power  of  making  an  offensive  in  her 
own  hands,  could  not  even  prevent  Austria  from  lend- 
ing powerful  aid  in  the  great  German  offensive  against 
Russia!  Ink  and  breath  were  spent  in  extolling  the 
union  of  the  Latin  races:  but  the  mass  of  the  French 
people — from  that  time  on — looked  no  more  for  aid  to 
Italy. 

We  deferred  hope  until  the  spring  of  1916.  Surely 
the  British  would  now  be  ready  to  cooperate  with  the 
French  in  the  final  offensive  of  the  war !  But  the  Ger- 
mans, feeling  certain  that  they  had  disposed  of  the 
Russians,  struck  first.  The  last  days  of  February, 
1916,  were  (if  one  except  possibly  the  spring  months 
of  1918)  the  darkest  days  of  the  war.  Although  the 
attacks  against  Verdun  failed,  the  weather  in  Paris  com- 
bined with  sickening  anxiety  to  make  us  feel  that  it  was 
nip-and-tuck.  As  a  contrast,  the  summer  months  of 
the  Battle  of  the  Somme  renewed  our  courage.  And 

224 


AT  HOME  IN  THE  WHIRLWIND 

just  as  we  were  reluctantly  realizing  that  this  onslaught 
of  ours  was  as  indecisive  as  the  earlier  German  offensive 
against  Verdun,  to  which  it  was  the  reply,  the  inter- 
vention of  Rumania  came  to  offset  the  admitted  failure 
o*  the  Dardanelles  and  Mesopotamian  campaigns. 
At  last,  the  war  was  to  be  decided  in  the  Balkans! 
Before  the  third  winter  set  in,  however,  we  saw 
Rumania  humbled  by  Mackensen  and  the  Salonica 
army  as  motionless  as  the  armies  on  the  western  front, 
even  though  Venizelos  had  at  last  succeeded  in  ranging 
Greece  on  our  side.  The  German  machine  was  not 
crumbling  before  a  combination  of  superior  numbers 
and  superior  equipment,  and  managed  to  face  its 
enemies  on  all  sides. 

So  much  for  what  the  newspapers  said  during  those 
thirty  months  and  for  what  we  thought  about  the 
peripeties  of  the  war.  After  each  disappointment  we 
looked  for  new  reasons  to  hope.  We  readjusted  our- 
selves to  living  in  the  midst  of  uncertainties,  bereave- 
ments that  would  have  broken  our  hearts  had  they 
come  to  us  "by  the  hand  of  God,"  and  increasing  social 
and  economic  difficulties.  France  was  saved  because 
the  French  people  never  faltered  in  their  belief  that 
dulce  et  decorum  est  pro  patria  mori.  France  was 
saved  because  Paris  led  a  normal  life  in  the  midst  of  the 
whirlwind.  The  Turks  have  a  proverb  that  a  fish  be- 
gins to  corrupt  at  the  head.  If  the  Parisians  had 
become  demoralized,  if  they  had  given  up  the  struggle 


PARIS  VISTAS 

to  live  normally  and  tranquilly,  France  would  have 
been  lost. 

Initial  reactions  and  early  symptoms  of  war  fever 
passed  quickly.  We  soon  opened  up  our  pianos,  put 
on  our  phonograph  records,  and  took  to  singing  again. 
We  did  not  wear  mourning.  We  insisted  upon  having 
our  theatres  and  music-halls.  We  celebrated  Christ- 
mas. We  stopped  making  last  year's  suits  do  and  re- 
fusing to  buy  finery.  For  the  poilus,  coming  home  to 
find  their  women  folks  shabby,  said  it  was  gayer  at  the 
front.  We  allowed  all  the  German  composers  except 
Wagner  to  re-appear  on  our  programmes.  Some 
stupidities,  such  as  banishing  the  German  language  from 
schools  and  burning  German  books,  we  were  never 
guilty  of. 

I  remember  reading  with  amusement  and  amazement 
an  article  in  an  American  newspaper,  written  by  some- 
one who  "did"  war-stricken  France  in  thirty  days,  in 
which  this  statement  was  made:  "There  are  millions 
in  France  who  will  never  smile  again."  Upon  this 
absurd  and  false  hypothesis  the  article  was  built.  It 
was  easy  to  be  sure  that  the  writer  knew  nothing  what- 
ever about  France  in  war-time  or  about  psychology,  for 
that  matter.  Whoever  has  had  any  experience  of  hor- 
rors or  who  has  lived  through  a  great  crisis  knows  that 
if  you  do  not  laugh  you  will  go  crazy.  Normal  human 
beings  must  have  relaxation  and  recreation.  They 
must  have — or  create — normal  conditions  in  abnormal 

226 


AT  HOME  IN  THE  WHIRLWIND 

surroundings.  You  must  go  on  living.  You  must 
have  strength  to  meet  burdens.  So  you  laugh  and  sing 
and  dance.  You  entertain  people  and  are  entertained. 
You  go  to  the  theatre.  You  take  exercise.  You  enjoy 
your  meals.  A  long  face  is  either  a  pose  or  a  sign  of 
mental  derangement.  In  the  spring  of  1916  I  checked 
up  a  dozen  of  my  women  friends,  all  of  whom  had 
husbands  or  sons — or  both — in  the  war.  More  than 
half  were  widows  or  had  sons  killed.  The  husbands  of 
two  were  prisoners  in  German  camps.  But  all  of  them 
were  planning  to  spend  the  summer  in  their  country- 
homes  or  at  the  shore,  just  as  they  had  done  before  the 
war.  Is  not  this  the  secret  of  our  ability  to  hold  on 
during  the  "last  quarter  of  an  hour"  and  to  continue  to 
hope  for  victory  until  we  had  obtained  it? 

At  the  beginning  of  the  second  winter,  in  November, 
1915,  I  sent  my  three  children  to  live  for  a  few  weeks 
in  my  studio,  which  I  had  fixed  up  especially  for  them. 
They  had  a  piano  and  a  phonograph  and  books  and  toys. 
They  moved  over  with  their  nurse  on  a  Sunday  after- 
noon, and  thought  it  was  a  great  lark.  The  next  day 
their  father  went  to  see  them  and  told  them  about  the 
arrival  of  a  baby  sister. 

Tuesday  morning  the  children  came  to  see  us. 
Never  shall  I  forget  their  joy.  Christine  said  immedi- 
ately, "Hello,  Hope,  let  me  fix  your  feet.  Mama, 
could  I  tuck  her  blanket  in?  Hope's  feet  are  cold.  I 
want  to  hold  her  soon."  A  little  mother,  she  is. 

227 


PARIS  VISTAS 

Lloyd,  sensitive  and  reserved,  stood  quietly  looking. 
He  patted  my  face  and  tried  to  speak.  But  his  mouth 
was  turning  down  at  the  corners  for  just  a  second,  and 
I  had  to  save  the  day  by  asking  him  a  cheerful  question. 
Mimi  clapped  her  hands  and  danced  and  said,  "I  like 
you,  mama,  dat's  a  fine  baby."  When  Herbert  went 
over  to  the  consulate  to  register  the  baby,  he  took  Chris- 
tine with  him.  She  heard  him  say  to  the  Consul- 
General,  Mr.  Thackara,  that  his  French  friends  were 
teasing  him  about  the  large  number  of  marriage  dots 
he  will  have  to  provide.  Christine  saw  in  this  a  re- 
flection on  girl  babies.  With  a  volley  of  French  re- 
proof, which  delighted  the  whole  consular  office,  she 
went  for  him  tooth  and  nail. 

Isn't  it  a  joke  on  me  to  have  so  many  daughters?  I 
have  always  thought  myself  a  good  pal,  understanding 
men  much  better  than  women.  Miss  Mary  Cassatt 
came  in.  Her  comment  was  subtle.  She  said  simply 
to  Herbert  that  she  was  glad  of  his  assured  increase  of 
interest  in  women's  suffrage.  Surprised,  Herbert  was 
betrayed  into  asking  why.  "Don't  you  realize,"  ex- 
claimed Miss  Cassatt,  "that  you  must  begin  now  to 
interest  yourself  in  the  future  of  your  girls'?"  Al- 
though the  coming  of  Hope  increases  the  problems  of 
feminine  psychology  I  shall  have  to  deal  with  later 
on,  I  am  glad  the  war  baby  was  a  girl.  My  firs^t 
thought,  when  they  told  me,  was  that  she  should  not 
have  to  carry  a  gun. 

228 


AT  HOME  IN  THE  WHIRLWIND 

This  brings  me  to  her  name.  1915  was  drawing  to 
a  close  with  so  many  darkening  shadows — but  shadows 
that  did  not  lessen  our  faith  in  the  outcome  of  the  war 
— that  I  thought  the  name  imposed  upon  us  by  circum- 
stances. I  called  her  Hope  Delarue.  Dear  old  Pere 
Delarue  is  one  of  the  best  known  research  scholars  in 
the  Jesuit  Order.  Our  friendship,  founded  back  in 
Constantinople  days,  has  deepened  during  the  war. 
When  Herbert  went  off  on  his  many  trips,  anyone  of 
which  might  have  proved  the  last,  he  left  me  in  the 
care  of  Pere  Delarue.  The  dear  old  man  had  been 
coming  to  us  from  time  to  time  with  the  news  of  an- 
other loss  in  his  family.  His  brother,  a  general  in  the 
French  army,  was  killed.  His  nephews  had  fallen.  I 
thought  it  would  comfort  him  to  feel  that  there  was  a 
child  in  the  world  to  bear  his  name.  Before  going  to 
Suez,  Herbert  gave  me  some  flat  silver  marked  H.D.G. 
It  flashed  into  his  brain  the  day  after  the  baby  was  born 
that  the  little  thing  had  its  mother's  initials ! 

I  was  up  for  the  first  time  on  Christmas  Eve.  We 
had  a  large  party  as  usual,  with  a  tree  for  the  children 
trimmed  by  the  grown-ups.  In  spite  of  the  rain  we 
tried  to  make  our  Christmas  Day  a  joyful  one.  There 
was  the  newborn  baby  to  celebrate.  At  the  end  of  the 
afternoon,  Herbert  gave  us  a  hurried  kiss  all  around, 
and  went  out  in  the  rain  to  catch  the  train  for 
Marseilles.  He  sailed  the  next  day  on  the  Andre 
Lebon  for  Port-Said.  His  was  the  only  one  of  the 

229 


PARIS  VISTAS 

three  passenger  boats  that  week  to  escape  the  sub- 
marines. The  P.  and  O.  Persia  was  sunk  off  Crete  and 
the  Japanese  mail  went  down  seventy  miles  from  the 
Canal. 

I  did  not  see  my  husband  for  several  months,  and 
then  he  joined  us  in  Nice  for  a  few  days  before  going 
to  Verdun.  It  was  a  joyful  reunion.  Herbert  ad- 
mired his  children  and  asked  what  they  had  done  during 
his  absence.  But  he  forgot  all  about  poor  little  Hope, 
who  was  taking  her  nap.  Two  hours  after  his  arrival, 
a  lusty  cry  brought  back  to  his  mind  the  fact  that  the 
number  of  his  children  was  four. 

Memories  of  these  days  are  not  painful,  because  we 
did  not  allow  ourselves  to  be  dominated  by  pain  while 
they  were  being  lived.  The  whirlwind  was  not  of  our 
making,  nor  had  we  gone  deliberately  into  the  midst 
of  it.  But,  finding  ourselves  there,  we  made  the  best 
of  it.  Memories  are  precious.  I  would  not  have 
missed  the  Paris  vistas  of  those  years.  It  is  a  blessed 
thing  to  have  in  one's  mind  the  long  lines  of  adverse 
circumstances  and  difficulties  and  anxieties  on  either 
side  if  at  the  end  is  hope  realized.  And  I  have  my  own 
tangible  Hope,  a  child  whose  merry,  sunny  nature  is 
living  proof  of  how  Paris  was  at  home  in  the  whirlwind. 


230 


M 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

SAUVONS    LES    BEBES 

-M-M-MADAME  m-m-must  not  be  f-f-fright- 
ened;  he  said  so!" 

My  Bretonne  cook  came  to  me  pale  and  stammering. 

"What  is  the  trouble,  Rosali?" 

"P-p-policeman  at  the  d-d-door  s-s-says  he  m-m-must 
see  you !" 

A  spick  and  span  agent  came  into  my  drawing-room. 
He  took  the  cigarette  offered  him,  and  explained  the 
reason  for  his  visit. 

"My  chief  sent  me  around  to  ask  madame  to  help. 
It  is  a  baby  case.  We  came  here  because  the  mother 
said  she  got  a  layette  at  madame's  studio.  Her  name 

is  Mile.  A ;  do  you  remember  her  case*?  If 

madame  could  come — " 

In  a  few  minutes  we  were  walking  up  the  Rue 
Delambre  to  the  police  station  of  the  Fourteenth 

Arrondissement.     Mile.  A had  come  to  me  for 

i 

baby  clothes  before  she  went  to  the  hospital.  The 
child's  father  was  at  the  front.  When  the  mother  ap- 
pealed to  him  to  recognize  the  child,  with  the  desperate 
way  of  a  man  who  is  in  the  trenches  facing  death,  he 
replied, 

231 


PARIS  VISTAS 

"What 's  the  use !  How  do  I  know  that  the  child 
is  mine1?" 

Before  going  to  the  hospital  the  girl  begged  me  to 
think  of  something  to  do.  When  the  baby  was  born 
we  had  him  photographed  and  a  copy  sent  to  his  father, 
we  wrote,  "The  baby  looks  like  you  as  you  can  see 
from  this  photograph.  If  you  tear  up  the  card  or  throw 
it  away,  the  next  shell  will  kill  you." 

At  the  police  station,  in  the  stuffy  little  room  where 
the  plain  clothes  men  sit  close  to  the  door  leading  to 
the  office  of  the  Monsieur  le  Commissaire,  I  found 
Mile.  A and  her  baby. 

"O  Madame,"  she  cried,  "Jean  got  our  card.  He 
was  sitting  in  a  little  circle  with  some  comrades  eating 
dinner.  The  mail  arrived.  His  name  was  called. 
He  rose  and  walked  over  to  the  vaguemestre  and,  oh, 
Madame,  just  then  the  shell  came.  It  exploded  where 
Jean  had  been  eating  his  dinner,  and  all  his  comrades 
were  killed.  He  says  the  baby,  pauvre  chou,  looks  like 
him  and  saved  his  life." 

The  agent  came  with  papers.  "Will  madame  sign 
here?"  Jean  was  recognizing  little  Pierrot  and 
was  applying  for  permission  to  marry  the  baby's 
mother. 

An  old  woman  sitting  nearby  held  in  her  hands  a 
livret  de  manage.  "Quel  beau  bebe!"  she  exclaimed. 
"Is  it  a  girl?" 

"No,  madame,  a  boy,"  replied  mademoiselle,  smooth- 

232 


ing  the  baby's  swaddling  blanket  and  pinning  it  tighter 
around  Pierrot's  little  tummy. 

"That's  it,  that's  it,"  cried  the  old  woman.  "I 
came  here  to  get  a  certificate  myself.  My  daughter 
had  a  baby  born  this  morning.  It 's  a  boy,  too.  It  was 
like  that  in  Soixante-Dix.  Nearly  all  the  babies  born 
in  war  time  are  boys.  O  la,  la,  madame,  what  a  baby ! 
His  father  is  fighting  so  he  won't  have  to  carry  a  gun." 
Here  she  pulled  out  a  handkerchief. 

The  poor  help  the  poor,  when  it  comes  to  moral^  as 
in  everything  else.  I  was  sitting  in  my  studio  inter- 
viewing women  who  came  for  baby  clothes.  A  white- 
faced  girl  sat  down  in  the  chair  at  the  opposite  side  of 
the  table. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you1?"  said  I. 

"A  little  white  dress — "  she  sobbed.  "Could  you 
give  me  a  little  white  dress*?" 

"Certainly  I  '11  give  it  to  you,  and  lots  of  other 
things  too." 

"I  don't  need  anything  else,"  she  said  softly,  "My 
baby  died  this  morning.  They  did  everything  at  the 
hospital  to  save  her.  She  was  born  three  weeks  ago 
and  they  let  me  stay  on.  They  wrapped  her  in  a  little 
piece  of  sheeting.  I  can't  stand  it  to  bury  her  like 
that !"  She  put  her  head  down  on  the  table  and  wept. 

"Shall  I  give  madame  a  little  white  dress1?" 

The  twenty  other  mothers  sitting  there  answered 
"Yes,  give  it  to  her." 

233 


PARIS  VISTAS 

To  some  the  tears  had  come.  Others,  dry-eyed, 
clutched  their  babies. 

"And  flowers'?"  said  one. 

"Yes,  she  must  have  money  for  flowers."  I  hardly 
knew  what  to  say  to  the  girl,  but  soon  the  other  mothers 
were  talking  to  her.  They  were  the  best  comforters. 

How  did  amateur  relief  workers  get  the  strength  and 
energy  to  face  the  awfulness  of  the  situation*?  What 
we  did  was  not  "wonderful."  Relief  work  was  a  debt 
we  owed  to  life.  Fatigue  could  never  be  thought  of. 
When  my  apartment  is  in  a  mess  from  front  door  to 
kitchen,  straightening  looks  hopeless.  It  used  to  be 
discouraging  until  I  pretended  I  had  blinders  on  my 
eyes  and  began  with  the  nursery  table.  I  took  off 
everything  that  did  n't  belong  there  and  replaced  the 
things  that  should  be  there.  I  finished  the  table  to  the 
last  detail  before  making  the  bed.  I  tried  to  work  in 
a  leisurely  frame  of  mind  without  too  many  glances  at 
the  clock.  After  a  bit  one  whole  room  was  tidied. 
Kiddies  were  requested  not  to  go  in  there  "till  Mama 
says  so."  Then  I  tackled  the  next  room,  and  so  on — 
and  so  on.  In  relief  work,  too,  you  must  begin  to  work 
on  one  atom  of  the  problem.  You  must  put  blinders 
on  your  eyes  to  shut  out  all  the  other  atoms.  It  is 
fatal  to  let  your  imagination  run  away  with  you,  fatal 
to  envisage  the  accumulated  woe. 

Once  in  the  Rue  Servandoni  days  an  Englishman 
came  to  ask  Herbert  to  bury  his  baby.  He  told  me 

234 


SAUVONS  LES  BEBES 

the  story  of  how  the  baby  died,  and  I  cried  all  night 
thinking  of  the  mother.  Herbert  remonstrated  with 
me  for  trying  to  bear  the  whole  of  another's  grief. 
Christ  did  that  and  it  broke  His  heart.  His  broken 
heart  could  save  humanity;  but  as  for  little  me  I  could 
4o  nobody  any  good  by  breaking  my  heart  over  them. 
Relief  work  must  be  constructive  with  respect  to  the 
patient  and  instructive  with  respect  to  the  worker. 
You  have  to  exercise  self-control  of  emotion  and  help 
yourself  to  poise  by  quickly  concentrating  your  mind 
on  what  details  of  the  problem  you  are  fitted  to  cope 
with.  You  learn  after  a  while  that  your  enthusiasm 
and  sympathy  will  not  do  it  all.  You  accept  the  fact 
that  you  are  not  indispensable.  You  realize  that  you 
can  put  a  person  on  his  feet  but  that  to  carry  him  is 
beyond  you.  You  are  not  the  only  influence  for  good 
that  is  touching  his  life.  This  attitude  keeps  you  both 
happy  and  humble.  And  so  you  develop  confidence  in 
life  and  confidence  in  time.  In  relief  work  both  life 
and  time  are  good  allies. 

My  work  started  in  a  modest  way  in  my  studio  in 
September,  1914.  I  wanted  to  help  mothers  of  new- 
born babies,  and  so  I  called  my  osuvre  SAUVONS  LES 
BEBES.  I  wrote  to  friends  for  money  and  layettes,  and 
depended — as  all  American  women  in  France  did — 
upon  the  personal  correspondence  with  individuals  and 
organizations  in  America  to  maintain  and  develop  the 
work  started.  I  had  no  committee,  and,  during  the 

23? 


PARIS  VISTAS 

three  years  I  worked  for  the  babies,  only  one  associate. 
The  French  wife  of  an  American  artist  joined  me  in 
1915.  From  Princeton,  German  town,  Philadelphia, 
Pittsburg,  New  York,  Brooklyn  and  Boston  people  I 
knew  and  my  readers  sent  me  money  and  boxes  through 
the  American  Relief  Clearing-House.  My  best  aids 
were  always  and  invariably  the  police,  who  sent  cases 
to  me  and  guarded  me  against  imposition.  It  soon 
became  known  in  the  Fourteenth  (my  own)  Arrondisse- 
ment,  and  the  neighbouring  Sixth,  Fifth,  Thirteenth 
and  Fifteenth  Arrondissements,  that  an  American 
woman  in  the  Rue  Campagne-Premiere  gave  layettes  to 
expectant  mothers,  and  sometimes  helped  with  medi- 
cines, milk,  vacations,  clothes  and  shoes  for  other  chil- 
dren. I  did  not  need  to  advertise  or  hang  out  a  sign ! 
In  less  than  three  years  four  thousand  mothers  of  five 
thousand  babies  found  their  way  to  the  Rue  Campagne- 
Premiere.  Sometimes  I  was  swamped,  badly  swamped, 
but  I  managed  to  get  around  to  all  in  the  end.  I  re- 
member one  time,  however,  that  babies  were  several 
months  old  before  I  could  give  their  mothers  a  complete 
layette. 

There  was  nothing  unusual  about  my  ceuvre,  in  its 
size,  its  singlehandedness,  or  its  spirit.  Every  Amer- 
ican woman  in  France  did  what  she  could  from  the  very 
beginning  by  taking  up  work  as  she  saw  it  at  hand — 
in  her  own  home  or  neighborhood.  Many  did  much 

236 


SAUVONS  LES  BEBES 

more  than  I.  There  were  others  in  Paris  looking  after 
the  new-born  babies. 

In  the  summer  of  1917  we  Americans  resident  in 
France  had  to  give  up,  all  of  us,  the  individuality  of 
our  ceuvres.  This  meant  that  most  of  them  went  out 
of  existence.  When  the  rumor  ran  from  mouth  to 
mouth  in  the  American  colony  that  the  Red  Cross  in- 
sisted on  taking  over  everything  and  would  starve  out 
the  stubborn  individualists,  there  was  consternation. 
Since  the  Red  Cross  was  a  Government  organization 
and  controlled  shipping,  it  was  possible  for  them  to  tell 
us  that  we  should  receive  no  more  cases  of  supplies 
after  September  first,  even  if  friends  at  home  kept  on 
sending  them.  Some  were  furious;  some  were 
offended;  some  would  give  a  generous  slice  of  their  for- 
tune to  fight  the  injunction;  some  laughed.  But  the 
charities'  trust  had  come  to  stay,  and  started  in  to 
handle  things  and  ride  rough-shod  over  people  in  a  way 
that  I  fear  is  typically  American. 

In  the  early  stages  of  war  fever,  the  Y.M.C.A.  and 
the  Army  showed  the  same  symptoms  as  the  Red  Cross 
in  France.  There  was  the  idea  that  the  American  way 
is  always  and  exclusively  the  right  way;  impatience 
with  and  resentment  against  existing  organizations; 
a  thirst  for  sweeping  reforms;  and  the  determination 
that  Americans  who  had  been  on  the  ground  from  the 
beginning  must  be  eliminated.  The  way  our  splendid 

237 


PARIS  VISTAS 

Ambulance  at  Neuilly  was  absorbed  by  the  army  is  a 
story  of  Prussianism  pure  and  simple.  The  Red  Cross 
men  and  their  wives  did  not  seem  to  get  it  into  their 
heads  that  we  had  been  at  war  for  three  years.  I 
attended  a  drawing-room  meeting  one  day,  where  a  hun- 
dred women  were  gathered  who  had  been  sacrificing 
themselves  in  relief  work  ever  since  the  day  France 
mobilized.  More  than  one  had  lost  her  son  in  the 
war.  A  new  Red  Cross  woman,  fresh  from  America, 
lectured  on  what  the  Red  Cross  was  going  to  do.  She 
smiled  at  us,  and  her  peroration  was  this:  "Now  you 
must  realize  that  we  are  at  war,  and  that  we.  are  going 
to  put  you  all  to  work,  all  to  work !" 

When  the  excitement  cooled  down  a  bit,  we  realized 
that  these  Red  Cross  volunteers  meant  well,  that  they 
were  devoted  and  capable,  and  that  we  could  not  take 
too  tragically  their  ignorance  and  inexperience.  We 
realized  that  we  were  tired,  that  we  needed  a  rest  and 
change,  and  that  the  Red  Cross,  with  its  enormous 
funds  and  abundant  personnel,  was  in  a  position  to 
realize  many  of  our  dreams.  Our  initial  resentment 
was  in  part  dismay  at  seeing  newly  arrived  compatriots 
making  the  same  mistakes  some  of  us  had  made  in  the 
beginning,  and  partly  their  obtuseness  in  failing  to  get 
the  French  point  of  view.  Contact  with  suffering  such 
as  they  had  never  seen  before  soon  mellowed  most  of 
the  Red  Cross  volunteers  and  they  realized  that 
America  was  coming,  as  my  husband  put  it,  "not  to 

238 


SAUVONS  LES  BEBES 

save  France,  but  to  help  France  save  the  world." 
Outside  of  hospitals,  where  there  was  a  reason  for  it, 
we  had  never  worn  uniforms:  but  we  got  accustomed 
to  seeing  them  as  the  A.E.F.  grew  although  we  never 
could  master  the  meaning  of  many  of  them.  One 
morning  a  woman  in  uniform,  with  service  cap  and 
Sam-Browne  belt  (not  forgetting  the  nickel  ring  for 
hanging  a  dagger  from),  appeared  in  my  studio. 
From  her  pocket  she  took  a  crisp  new  loose-leaf  note- 
book, the  like  of  which  could  no  longer  be  indulged  in 
by  ordinary  folks.  As  she  unscrewed  and  adjusted  her 
fountain-pen,  she  said, 

"I  've  been  sent  to  inspect  your  relief  organization." 
"You  come  from  the  Children's  Bureau"?"  I  asked. 
"No,    Civilian    Relief.     How   do   you   handle    the 
matter  of  investigation4?" 

"Well,"  I  answered,  "I  cast  my  eye  over  the  person, 
size  her  up,  and  give  her  what  she  needs.  I  cannot 
afford  to  investigate.  You  see,  I  have  no  overhead 
charges  and  I  need  all  the  money  I  can  get  for  materials 
and  all  the  time  for  handling  them.  The  only  expense 
is  for  sewing.  Even  that  money  goes  to  my  own 
women.  I  give  the  sewing  out  to  mothers  on  my  list 
so  they  will  not  have  to  go  out  to  work.  This  en- 
courages them  to  nurse  their  babies  themselves  instead 
of  sending  them  to  a  nourrice" 

"People  begging,"  said  my  visitor,  "are  splendid 
actors,  you  know." 

239 


PARIS  VISTAS 

'Tew  women  who  are  just  about  to  have  a  baby  are 
likely  to  act  the  impostor,"  I  answered,  "and  then  I  do 
not  consider  my  women  as  beggars.  I  'm  sure  that  nine 
out  of  ten  are  not.  They  would  n't  need  any  aid  if 
their  husbands  were  not  in  the  trenches  earning  five  sous 
a  day.  For  the  first  two  years  it  was  only  one  sou  a 
day.  You  can  generally  tell  the  difference  between  a 
shifty  woman  looking  for  a  chance  to  get  something 
for  nothing  and  the  shattered  little  mother,  unaccus- 
tomed to  charity,  whose  children  would  go  without 
winter  clothes  were  it  not  for  some  form  of  outside  help. 
Most  of  the  women  who  come  here  look  on  me  as  a 
neighbor  who  loves  babies  and  who  keeps  flannel  in  her 
cupboard.  I  'd  rather  give  away  an  occasional  layette 
to  a  dead  beat  than  bruise  the  feelings  of  timid  souls  at 
bay.  If  you  could  see  them  as  they  come  in  here !" 

"But  you  know  really  that  there  can  be  an  immense 
amount  of  waste  of  good  material  if  you  don't  investi- 
gate." 

"I  may  have  wasted  material,  but  I  've  never  failed 
to  help.  Nobody  investigated  me  when  my  baby  was 
born  in  a  Turkish  massacre.  If  they  had,  I  could  n't 
have  stood  it.  Of  course  I  have  faced  the  question.  I 
figure  that  if  I  put  in  one  column  the  number  of 
layettes  I  give  out  and  their  cost,  and  beside  it  what  I 
would  spend  in  time  and  taxi  fares  to  investigate,  I 
should  find  that  the  prxice  of  a  badly-placed  layette  or 
two  would  be  less  than  the  cost  of  investigation." 

240 


SAUVONS  LES  BEBES 

The  inspector  took  full  and  rapid  notes.  Folding 
them  neatly  into  her  pocket  with  one  clap  of  her  note- 
book, she  left  me. 

Three  days  later  a  young  man  appeared.  He  said, 
"I  am  here  to  represent  the  Red  Cross.  Would  you 
mind  telling  me  about  your  baby  work?" 

"Are  you  from  the  Children's  Bureau*?" 

"No,  I  am  Vital  Statistics." 

After  the  Refugees  Bureau  sent  two  inspectors  to 
look  into  my  activities,  the  Children's  Bureau  finally 
did  come.  They  "took  over"  my  work,  which  meant 
that  no  more  babies  in  my  quarter  of  Paris  received 
layettes  from  the  United  States. 

When  I  finally  handed  over  my  ceuvre  to  the  Red 
Cross,  the  interview  with  the  husky  well-fed  football 
player  of  a  doctor  was  refreshing.  He  was  full  of 
enthusiasm,  and  I  felt  instinctively  that  he  was  an  able 
man  with  broad  vision  and  an  open  mind.  But,  like 
all  the  men  at  4  Place  de  la  Concorde,  he  did  not  give 
the  French  credit  for  having  already  thought  of  and 
worked  out  many  of  the  problems  he  wanted  to  solve. 
His  attitude  towards  the  French  put  them  in  what  Abe 
and  Mawruss  would  call  the  "new  beginner"  class  in 
the  matter  of  baby  welfare.  He  cheerfully  told  me  of 
organizing  plans  for  saving  French  babies,  plans  which, 
compared  with  what  we  had  been  doing,  were  Kolossal. 
But  the  plans  included  some  things  which  I  knew  would 
not  go  and  others  which  the  French  had  already  worked 

241 


PARIS  VISTAS 

out  more  successfully  than  my  own  compatriots. 
Puericulture  is  an  advanced  science  in  France,  where 
baby  lives  are  more  precious  than  anywhere  else  in  the 
world.  I  had  tried  some  of  the  things  he  wanted  to  do 
and  had  run  up  against  a  stone  wall.  So  had  other 
American  women.  I  started  to  sputter,  but  stopped 
short  of  speech.  For  I  had  a  lightning  vision  of  how 
parents  must  feel  when  their  children,  grown  to  man- 
hood, plunge  into  work  and  do  things  they  might  be 
saved  from  if  only — .  I  felt  motherly  towards  this 
capable  young  man  who  was  as  old  as  myself.  But 
something  about  him  gave  me  confidence  that  he  would 
work  it  out  all  right.  And  I  knew  that  he  was  in  no 
frame  of  mind  to  benefit  by  my  experience. 


242 


T 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

UNCOMFORTABLE    NEUTRALITY 

HE  following  letter  was  in  my  husband's  mail 
one  day: 


"A  young  American  came  to  Paris  about  twenty-five  years 
ago,  lived  for  a  time  in  the  Latin  Quarter,  and  then,  follow- 
ing the  loss  of  his  income,  obtained  a  minor  position  in  the 
office  of  an  importer  of  American  goods.  He  liked  his  work, 
rose  to  a  place  of  responsibility,  eventually  went  into  business 
for  himself,  and  developed  the  business  to  a  prosperous  issue. 

"He  held  the  theory  that  the  few  Americans  living  and 
working  abroad  formed  the  nucleus  of  American  overseas  in- 
dustrial expansion  and  that  they  were  regarded  by  Europeans 
as  representative  of  their  fellow-countrymen.  He  felt  that  it 
was  his  duty  to  conduct  his  business  and  social  activities  in 
such  a  manner  as  to  merit  the  confidence  and  respect  of  his 
hosts.  Had  he  been  indifferent  to  these  responsibilities  or  had 
his  patriotic  fire  ever  burned  low,  his  association  with  the 
active  members  of  the  American  Chamber  of  Commerce  in 
France  and  the  American  Club  in  Paris  would  have  surely 
recalled  and  revived  them.  Every  one  knows  of  the  results 
attained  by  these  organizations  in  their  effort  to  maintain  the 
feeling  of  sympathetic  understanding  between  the  two  great 
sister  republics  during  the  long  and  difficult  period  of  'watch- 
ful waiting.'  Such  services  enter  into  the  realm  of  practical 
diplomacy  and  could  have  been  rendered  efficient  only  by  men 
of  high  standing  and  of  the  highest  order  of  patriotism. 

"I  wish  to  call  your  attention  to  the  editorial  page  of  an 

243 


PARIS  VISTAS 

American  weekly,  which  boasts  of  millions  of  readers,  where 
we  see  a  vicious  attack  upon  ourselves.  I  quote  textually: 
'Things  had  reached  a  point  among  our  expatriates,  the  fifty- 
eighth  and  lowest  form  of  cootie,  that  in  home  circles  to  be  pro- 
American  was  really  bad  form.' 

"Is  this  the  general  opinion  in  America?  Is  it  shared  by 
people  of  intelligence?  The  editorial  in  question  apparently 
adds  another  high  authority  on  public  opinion  to  the  previous 
judgment  rendered  by  Mr.  Wilson  when  he  classified  us  as 
'unpatriotic  Americans  living  abroad.'  I  am  interested  in 
knowing  the  true  facts.  Must  we  admit  that  we  are  held  in 
small  esteem  by  friends  at  home  because  we  live  in  France  ? 

"Sincerely  yours, 

"ONE  OF  THE  COOTIES." 

Being  "cooties"  ourselves,  in  the  estimation  of  the 
American  editorial  writer,  we  read  the  protest  of  the 
American  business  man  resident  in  Paris  with  the 
keenest  interest  and  sympathy.  In  telling  about  the 
attitude  of  the  Red  Cross  toward  our  relief  organiza- 
tions, after  the  United  States  intervened  in  the  war,  I 
spoke  of  only  one  phase  of  the  mistrust — even  scorn — 
so  many  of  our  compatriots  took  no  pains  to  conceal 
when  they  learned  that  we  belonged  to  the  American 
colony.  It  was  inconceivable  that  we  should  be  living 
in  Paris  and  bringing  up  our  children  there  and  still  be 
good  Americans.  They  questioned  more  than  our 
patriotism  and  our  loyalty  to  the  country  of  our  birth. 
They  felt  that  there  must  be  some  skeleton  in  the  closet 
of  every  American  family  living  abroad.  I  have  never 
had  an  American  tell  me  to  my  face  that  my  husband 

244 


UNCOMFORTABLE  NEUTRALITY 

was  a  crook  and  that  we  were  abroad  "for  our  health," 
but  I  have  had  them  inquire  pointedly  why  on  earth 
this  or  that  friend  of  mine  lived  in  exile.  And  I  sup- 
pose my  friends  were  asked  about  the  past  of  the  Gib- 
bons menage ! 

"How  long  have  you  been  over*?"  is  a  question  as 
common  as  the  "Oh!"  with  a  curious  inflection  that 
meets  the  confession  of  a  protracted  residence  abroad. 

I  am  sure  I  do  not  know  why  the  writer  in  the 
American  weekly  read  by  millions  called  us  first 
"expatriates"  and  then  "the  fifty-eighth  and  lowest 
form  of  cooties."  I  cannot  imagine  why.  He  is 
ignorant  of  the  people  of  whom  he  speaks.  He  has 
probably  never  met  anyone  in  the  American  colony  of 
a  European  city,  or  has  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that 
an  occasional  bounder  or  cad  or  snob  (these  are  always 
in  evidence)  represents  as  intensely  patriotic  and  loyal 
Americans  as  exist  anywhere.  Or  he  thinks  that  living 
abroad  means  dislike  of  one's  own  country. 

There  are  Americans  in  Europe — and  some  of  them 
are  to  be  found  in  Paris — who  have  no  valid  reason  for 
being  where  they  are  more  than  in  another  place. 
There  are  criminals  and  courtiers.  There  are  those 
who  have  forgotten  their  birthright.  But  they  form 
an  infinitesimally  small  percentage  of  the  American 
colony  in  Paris.  Most  of  our  American  residents  are 
business  men,  painters,  sculptors  and  writers,  with  the 
necessary  sprinkling  of  professional  men  to  minister  to 

245 


PARIS  VISTAS 

their  needs,  of  the  type  of  the  writer  of  the  letter 
quoted  above.  Many  of  them  came  to  Paris  first  by 
accident  or  as  students  and  just  stayed  on.  Without 
them  our  country  would  be  little  known  in  Europe :  and 
Europe  would  be  little  known  in  our  country.  Until 
the  war  broke  out,  it  was  never  realized  how  many 
Americans  resided  in  Paris.  Most  of  them  had  lived 
along  quietly,  doing  their  own  work  and  minding  their 
own  business.  But  they  had  kept  alive  the  friendship 
begun  in  the  days  of  Franklin.  Art  and  literature 
have  their  part  in  good  understanding  between  nations : 
but  the  foundation  and  the  binding  tie  are  furnished  by 
commerce  and  banking.  The  best  representatives  of 
Americanism  are  business  men. 

We  of  the  American  colony  found  that  out  during 
the  war;  and  we  are  sorry  for  the  ignorance  and  mis- 
apprehension and  ingratitude  of  our  compatriots. 
They  judged  without  inquiry  and  tried  to  put  into 
Coventry  the  very  men  whose  patience  and  tact  and 
devotion  not  only  prevented  a  break  between  France 
and  the  United  States  during  the  years  of  uncomfort- 
able neutrality  but  prepared  the  way  for  the  interven- 
tion of  America  and  the  downfall  of  Germany. 

I  may  not  have  perspective.  I  may  be  prejudiced. 
But  I  do  feel  that  I  have  a  right  to  protest  against  the 
cruel  snap  judgments  of  us  made  by  those  who  never 
realized  there  was  a  war  between  right  and  wrong  until 
April,  1917. 

\          246 


UNCOMFORTABLE  NEUTRALITY 

Les  amis  de  la  premiere  heure — the  friends  of  the 
first  hour — as  the  French  love  to  call  those  who  refused 
to  obey  the  injunction  to  be  "neutral  even  in  thought" 
were  not  confined  to  Americans  resident  in  France. 
We  had  behind  us  from  the  first  day  our  friends  in 
America,  friends  by  the  hundreds  of  thousands,  who 
sent  money  and  medical  supplies,  clothing  and  kits. 
All  who  could  came  to  France  to  help  actively  in  relief 
work.  But  the  machinery  for  the  charitable  effort  of 
the  United  States  coming  to  the  aid  of  France  was 
provided  by  the  Americans  who  were  permanent  or 
partial  residents  in  France.  We  were  on  the  ground. 
We  knew  the  language.  We  knew  the  needs  and  the 
peculiarities  of  those  we  were  helping. 

The  greatest  service  we  were  privileged  to  render  to 
our  own  country  and  to  France  was  not  ministering  to 
the  material  needs.  What  we  accomplished  was  a  drop 
in  the  bucket.  It  was  the  moral  significance  of  the 
relief  work  that  counted.  Our  Government  was 
neutral.  The  American  people  in  the  mass  were  far 
away  from  the  conflict.  The  French  realized  all  the 
same  that  individually  and  collectively  the  Americans 
who  knew  France  or  who  were  in  contact  with  France 
believed  in  the  righteousness  of  France's  cause  and  in 
the  final  triumph  of  France's  arms. 

Neutrality  was  uncomfortable.  For  thirty  months 
we  were  in  an  awkward  position.  We  had  to  hold  the 
balance  between  loyalty  to  America  and  friendship  for 

247 


PARIS  VISTAS 

France.  On  the  one  hand,  we  were  called  upon  to 
comprehend  the  slowness  of  our  fellow-countrymen  to 
awaken  to  the  moral  issues  at  stake,  especially  after 
the  sinking  of  the  Lusitania.  On  the  other  hand, 
we  were  called  upon  to  comprehend  the  impatience  and 
disappointment  of  our  French  friends.  We  tried  to 
be  sensible  and  to  realize  that  those  who  were  far  from 
the  fray  and  to  whom  the  war  was  incidental  could  not 
be  expected  to  share  our  intense  feeling.  With  rare 
exceptions,  Americans  in  Paris  did  not  allow  themselves 
to  criticize  the  policy  of  their  government  in  the 
presence  of  French  or  British  friends.  That  was  hard, 
and  required  as  much  tact  as  we  could  muster.  But 
when  we  were  en  famille,  the  fur  did  fly !  That  was 
natural.  We  had  a  right  to  our  opinions,  and  every- 
thing we  said  from  1914  to  the  end  of  1916,  President 
Wilson  and  all  America  with  him  said  in  1917  and 
1918.  We  were  never  ashamed  of  being  Americans. 
That  accusation  was  untrue.  But  we  were  sorry  that 
the  awakening  came  so  late.  For  we  saw  the  toll  of 
human  life  growing  each  month.  We  feared  that 
France  would  come  out  of  the  war  too  weakened  to 
profit  by  victory  if  the  war  dragged  on.  We  were 
sometimes  nervous  about  the  aftermath. 

As  I  look  back  upon  the  first  years  of  the  war,  Amer- 
ican neutrality  appears  as  a  tragedy.  It  was  uncom- 
fortable for  us,  and  disastrous  for  France.  But  we 
lived  through  it  as  we  lived  through  other  things.  Our 

248 


UNCOMFORTABLE  NEUTRALITY 

French   friends   were  splendid.     Their  patience   was 
greater  than  ours. 

We  kept  our  flags  ready  for  the  inevitable  day.  And 
when  it  arrived  at  last,  no  Americans  were  prouder 
of  the  stars  and  stripes  than  we. 


249 


1917 


CHAPTER  XXV 

HOW    WE    KEPT    WARM 

IN  Paris  the  child  of  the  people  is  a  born  artist. 
He  has  the  instinct  from  his  ancestors.  His  taste 
is  formed  and  cultivated  by  what  he  sees  around  him — 
of  the  present  as  well  as  of  the  past — from  the  time  he 
first  begins  to  observe  things.  Inheritance  and  at- 
mosphere influence  him.  One  June  day  in  1917,  our 
dear  friend  Thiebault-Sisson,  art  critic  of  the  Temps, 
was  lunching  with  us.  He  drew  from  his  pocket  a  lot 
of  photographs.  They  illustrated  the  best  and  most 
striking  of  the  drawings  by  children  in  the  primary 
schools  of  the  city.  M.  Thiebault-Sisson  had  or- 
ganized an  exposition  of  children's  drawings,  done  in 
their  ordinary  class  work.  The  photographs  were  a 
surprise  and  a  revelation.  Having  lived  in  Paris  since 
the  beginning  of  the  war,  I  could  appreciate  the  com- 
ments of  a  Parisian,  proud  of  this  eloquent  showing  of 
precocious  talent.  I  accepted  with  alacrity  his  invita- 
tion to  see  the  originals. 

The  outline,  almost  always  enhanced  by  bright 
frank  color,  where  the  three  notes  of  the  flag  played  a 
perpetual  leit-motif,  was  a  feast  for  the  eyes.  In  work 

253 


PARIS  VISTAS 

of  this  character  one  expects  to  see  the  freshness  and 
freedom  of  childhood.  What  I  found  that  was  un- 
usual was  the  maturity  born  or  suffering  and  intense 
emotion.  In  the  drawings  life  in  wartime  was  re- 
flected with  a  naivete  that  excluded  neither  precision 
nor  vigor  of  touch.  With  compositions  of  the  simplest 
and  most  studied  character  there  was  taste  and  a  pretty 
feeling  for  color. 

The  most  popular  form  of  drawing  was  the  poster. 
In  one  school  the  children  were  given  the  subject  of 
calling  upon  the  people  to  economize  gas.  One  little 
girl  made  a  few  bold  strokes  outlining  a  gas-jet  and 
wrote  underneath,  "Parisians — Economize  Gas!" 
Asked  to  admonish  the  public  to  eat  less  bread,  a  boy  of 
ten  used  a  potato  as  a  face.  The  eyes  were  almost 
human  in  their  appeal.  "Eat  me  please !"  was  written 
under  the  drawing.  A  further  caption  stated  that  it 
was  the  duty  of  patriots  to  save  the  bread  for  the 
soldiers.  Sugar  shortage  inspired  the  idea  of  a  sugar 
cone  and  the  same  cone  cut  in  half.  Under  the  former 
was  "In  1914"  and  under  the  latter  " — and  now!" 
The  best  of  these  posters  were  reproduced  by  the  thou- 
sand and  put  in  tram-cars  and  railway  stations.  They 
did  more  to  call  us  to  order  than  all  the  grave  offiches 
of  the  Government. 

A  dominating  note,  perhaps  the  strongest  after  that 
of  the  man  on  furlough  or  the  poignant  expression  of 
emotions  experienced  when  the  news  came  that  father 

254 


HOW  WE  KEPT  WARM 

would  never  return  again,  was  the  hunt  for  coal. 
Little  observers,  inventing  nothing  of  this  (for  it  was 
seen  over  and  over  again),  pictured  a  coal  wagon  upon 
which  two  or  three  youngsters  had  scrambled  and  were 
helping  themselves.  Generously  they  were  firing  bits 
of  the  precious  commodity  to  their  little  comrades. 
This  was  a  drawing  made  from  memory  of  things 
seen. 

Winter  in  Paris  is  often  mild:  but  early  in  1917 
came  a  protracted  spell  of  zero  weather  that  would 
have  taxed  the  facilities  of  Paris  in  ordinary  times. 
The  coal  shortage  hit  us  at  the  worst  possible  moment. 
Transportation  was  tied  up.  The  mines  were  not  pro- 
ducing. Stocks  became  exhausted  in  a  few  days.  The 
hunt  for  coal  was  cruel  because  it  was  mostly  fruitless 
and  because  it  imposed  upon  the  children  weary  waits, 
hours  at  a  time,  in  the  street  in  snow  and  wind,  with 
the  thermometer  down  to  zero. 

Whoever  saw  the  crowds  massed  in  a  long  line  in 
front  of  the  coal  depots,  old  men,  women,  children 
stamping  their  feet  painfully,  jostled,  weeping  or 
seized  with  mute  despair  at  the  curt  announcement 
that  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  return  to-morrow,  will 
never  forget  the  worst  calamity  that  fell  upon  Paris 
during  the  war.  Children  were  hit  by  it  more  than  all 
the  rest,  and  in  a  certain  sense  more  than  by  the  loss  of 
a  father.  For  they  suffered  from  it  in  their  own  flesh, 
in  little  hands  chapped  till  they  opened  into  deep 

255 


PARIS  VISTAS 

cracks,  in  little  fingers  stiffened  and  swollen  by  mon- 
strous chilblains,  in  frost-bitten  feet.  For  six  weeks 
the  quest  for  coal  was  the  ruling  passion.  It  inspired 
the  children  to  compositions  all  quite  like  each  other 
in  sentiment  and  all  dominated  by  the  conviction  of  an 
implacable  fatality. 

In  common  with  most  Parisians  who  lived  in  modern 
apartment-houses,  we  never  had  to  think  of  heat.  Like 
hot  water,  you  just  turned  it  on.  To  make  an  effort 
to  have  it  no  more  entered  into  our  scheme  of  things 
than  to  help  with  the  stoking  when  we  were  on  ship- 
board. How  naturally  one  accepts  the  comforts  and 
conveniences  resulting  from  the  work  of  others  and  the 
smooth  moving  of  modern  city  life!  At  first  we  felt 
•the  coal  shortage  mildly.  It  meant  piling  on  extra 
clothes  and  having  our  noses  turn  red  and  then  blue, 
like  the  dolls  with  barometrical  petticoats.  The  apart- 
ment was  chilly,  but  we  got  up  as  late  as  we  could. 
For  once  we  blessed  the  school  system  in  France  which 
works  the  children  so  many  hours  that  you  wonder  why 
the  babies  do  not  strike  for  an  eight-hour  day.  As 
long  as  the  municipality  could  supply  them,  schools 
were  especially  favored.  After  school  hours  and 
devoirs  (we  had  a  wood  fire  in  one  room),  bed  time 
soon  came  for  the  kids.  We  set  the  victrola  going, 
and  everybody  danced  until  they  forgot  the  ther- 
mometer. 

Then  we  began  to  discover  that  coal  means  more 

256 


A  passage  through  the  Louvre 


HOW  WE  KEPT  WARM 

than  heat  and  light.  We  found  out  how  many  trades 
were  obliged  to  say  "no  coal,  no  work."  In  a  big  city 
coal  is  certainly  king,  and  not  a  limited  monarch  at 
that.  Transportation  depends  on  coal,  and  everything 
else  depends  upon  transportation.  One  day  there  was 
a  mass  meeting  of  Paris  laundresses.  The  Government 
had  promised  them  coal  upon  payment  in  advance  of  a 
large  part  of  the  price.  The  order  had  been  placed  for 
weeks:  no  coal  came.  It  meant  livelihood  to  the 
laundresses  and  cleanliness  to  the  rest  of  us.  They 
had  the  Board  of  Health  with  them  and  the  learned 
doctors  of  the  Academic  de  Medecine.  Think  of  the 
menace  of  weeks  of  accumulated  soiled  linen !  It  was 
all  right  for  the  papers  to  joke  about  abolishing 
starched  shirts  and  cuffs  and  collars.  That  was  a  small 
part  of  the  problem,  affecting  only  men.  The  germs 
involved  in  not  being  able  to  wash  were  no  joke. 

Elderly  people  living  alone  and  adult  families  cal- 
culated that  it  was  cheaper  to  go  to  a  pension  than  to 
keep  house.  In  some  cases  it  was  the  only  feasible 
thing.  People  who  had  the  means  started  to  go  south 
when  conditions  in  Paris  became  intolerable.  But  with 
little  children  it  was  dangerous  to  attempt  a  journey 
in  freezing  cold  trains. 

Just  when  we  had  exhausted  the  little  supply  of 
wood  we  had  laid  in  originally  for  the  luxury  of  a  wood 
fire  we  did  not  need,  our  proprietaire  notified  us  that  he 
could  get  no  more  coal  for  heating  or  hot  water.  And 

257 


PARIS  VISTAS 

the  same  day  an  inspector  called  to  place  a  maximum 
of  gas  (our  only  means  of  cooking)  at  less  than  half  the 
amount  we  ordinarily  consumed. 

The  law  of  substitution  came  into  force.  We  had 
long  been  ridiculing  the  Germans  for  their  ersatz  in- 
genuity. Were  we  now  to  have  to  seek  substitutes? 
Cooking  is  the  most  vital  thing  in  life  next  to  foodstuffs. 
Paris  blossomed  out  with  what  I  thought  was  an  Amer- 
ican invention,  the  fireless  cooker.  But  they  were 
called  marmites  norvegiennes.  I  suppose  if  we  keep 
on  digging  -ait  Pompeii  we  shall  find  them  there. 
Everyone  who  could  afford  a  marmite  bought  one. 
You  could  get  them  at  all  prices  and  sizes,  and  the 
newspapers  published  daily  directions  for  using  them. 
If  you  could  not  afford  a  fireless  cooker  or  if  you  were 
unable  to  buy  one  (they  soon  gave  out,  of  course), 
you  took  your  hatbox  from  the  Galeries  Lafayette  and 
stuffed  it  with  newspapers  and  sawdust  with  just  room 
in  the  middle  for  your  soup-kettle. 

But  fireless  cookers  would  not  wash  clothes.  They 
would  not  give  the  necessary  supply  of  hot  water. 
The  law  of  substitution  has  a  limit.  And  what  was  to 
be  the  ersatz  for  fuel  in  heating?  Gas?  Your  supply 
was  already  cut  down.  Electricity?  Ditto.  Both  of 
these  depended  upon  coal.  Petroleum?  The  army 
had  commandeered  all  the  supplies  for  motor  transport 
and  airplanes.  Wood  alcohol  ?  There  was  none  to  be 
had. 

258 


HOW  WE  KEPT  WARM 

Then  began  the  coal  hunt  for  us.  We  had  been 
pitying  the  poor.  Now  was  our  turn.  Money  was  of 
no  value.  Other  proprietaires  had  served  the  same 
notice.  People  with  larger  purses  than  ours  were  in 
the  market  for  coal  and  wood.  Our  children  began 
to  suffer  also  in  their  own  flesh. 

My  husband  and  his  secretary  gave  up  work  and 
joined  the  coal  hunters.  They  scoured  the  city  in 
taxi-cabs.  Herbert  found  a  man  who  knew  where  there 
was  a  toa-of  anthracite  for  eighty  dollars.  He  tracked 
it  down  and  found  that  he  was  the  tenth  person  apply- 
ing for  it  that  same  afternoon. 

Then  the  kiddies  came  down  with  measles.  Keep- 
ing them  warm  in  the  way  the  doctor  ordered  was 
utterly  impossible.  All  we  could  do  was  to  give  them 
more  blankets.  When  the  baby  got  congestion  of  the 
lungs  and  heat  and  hot  baths  meant  the  difference  be- 
tween life  and  death,  I  cast  my  eye  over  the  apartment 
appraising  the  furniture.  I  no  longer  thought  of  how 
pretty  my  Brittany  armoire  was  or  how  I  loved  my 
Empire  desk.  The  cubic  feet  of  wood  was  the  sole 
criterion.  Dining-room  chairs  went  first  into  the  fire 
in  Hope's  bedroom.  The  dining-room  table,  sawed 
into  little  blocks,  heated  the  water  for  baths.  Cup- 
board doors  were  taken  off  their  hinges  and  converted 
into  fuel.  Herbert  got  a  hand-cart  and  stood  in  line 
for  his  turn  at  a  place  where  old  lumber  from  torn- 
down  houses  was  being  sold.  There  was  a  crowd  be- 


PARIS  VISTAS 

sieging  it  as  if  it  were  a  gold-mine.  It  was,  to  the 
owners.  The  junk  that  had  been  there  for  years  dis- 
appeared at  fabulous  prices  in  a  few  days,  doors,  clap- 
boards, window-sashes,  shutters,  beams,  flooring,  even 
lathes. 

When  our  fight  for  Hope's  life  became  known, 
friends  appeared  bringing  treasures.  A  prominent 
American  manufacturer  was  at  the  door  one  morning. 
He  had  climbed  six  flights  of  stairs  with  a  huge  bag  of 
bits  of  wood  gleaned  in  his  factory. 

"We  calculate  pretty  close,"  he  said  apologetically. 
"We  do  not  have  much  waste  in  making  roll-top  desks." 

"Don't  ask  me  where  I  got  this  sack  of  coal,"  said 
another  respectable  Samaritan.  I  felt  his  guilt,  con- 
firmed when  he  told  me  the  story  afterwards  of  how  he 
had  stolen  it  from  the  back  of  a  wagon.  But  I  was  not 
asking  questions  then ! 

Two  burly  policemen,  unmindful  of  dignity  and  uni- 
forms, deposited  sacks  of  wood  on  my  salon  floor. 
They  had  come  from  the  Commissariat  in  the  Fifth 
Arrondissement.  Monsieur  le  Commissaire,  they  ex- 
plained, had  said  that  the  woman  who  was  looking 
after  so  many  Paris  babies  in  her  ceuvre  must  not  be 
allowed  to  see  her  own  baby  die.  They  had  agreed. 
This  was  the  wood  from  their  own  office.  Why  not? 
For  the  first  time  I  cried.  Go  through  my  experience, 
and  you  will  understand  how  one  can  have  a  passionate 
love  for  the  French.  I  am  relating  here  just  one  little 

260 


HOW  WE  KEPT  WARM 

incident  of  help  unsolicited  that  came  in  a  crisis.  I  had 
never  seen  that  Commissaire.  How  he  knew  my  baby 
was  ill  was  a  mystery.  But  I  have  often  experienced 
in  my  Paris  life  the  impulsive  generosity,  carried  out  at 
inconvenience  and  sacrifice,  of  which  this  is  an  example. 
There  were  others  who  needed  that  wood  as  much  as 
I  did.  But  I  was  a  foreigner  who  had  been  working 
for  babies  in  the  Commissaire's  district.  A  point  of 
honor  was  involved.  Never  will  you  find  a  Frenchman 
lacking  when  he  feels  a  sense  of  obligation. 

Frangois  Coppee  wrote  a  beautiful  story  about  a 
young  French  aristocrat  whose  life  in  the  army  had 
taught  him  that  half  of  the  world  goes  through  life 
struggling  constantly  to  obtain  what  the  other  half  has 
without  effort.  Perhaps  you  have  read  "La  Croute  de 
Pain."  After  the  war  of  Soixante-Dix  the  aristocrat 
could  not  bear  to  see  bread  wasted.  One  day  he  picked 
up  a  crust  on  the  street,  brushed  off  the  mud  with  his 
handkerchief  and  set  it  on  the  sidewalk  where  one  who 
needed  it  would  find  it.  And  then  he  told  his  inquiring 
companion  why.  I  shall  always  be  like  that  with  coal. 
For  I  can  never  forget  how  we  kept  warm  in  February, 
1917. 


261 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

APRIL    SIXTH 

NEVER  were  Americans  in  France  more  perplexed 
about  the  state  of  feeling  in  the  United  States 
than  at  the  beginning  of  1917.  The  sinking  of  the 
Lusitania  and  other  torpillages  had  brought  forth  note 
after  note  from  President  Wilson:  but  his  spokesmen 
among  the  Democratic  senators,  especially  Senator 
Hitchcock,  were  advocating  measures  to  put  an  embargo 
on  the  export  of  arms  and  ammunition.  If  these  men 
had  succeeded,  they  would  have  helped  Germany  to  win 
the  war  during  1916.  Then  President  Wilson  was  re- 
elected  on  the  slogan,  "  He  has  kept  us  out  of  the  war." 
Immediately  after  his  re-election,  Mr.  Wilson  began 
an  attempt  to  make  peace  that  seemed  to  us  at  the  time 
distinctly  unfriendly  to  the  Entente.  The  idealism  of 
President  Wilson  stirred  us.  But  we  were  living  too 
close  to  the  war  to  see  the  advantage  of  a  "  peace 
without  victory." 

Our  first  intimation  of  a  change  of  attitude  in 
America  came  one  day  when  L?  Information,  one  of 
our  papers  that  comes  out  at  noon,  published  a  cable- 
gram from  Washington,  stating  that  Secretary  Lansing 

262 


APRIL  SIXTH 

had  declared  that  the  reason  behind  President  Wilson's 
interest  in  peace  was  that  the  United  States  felt  her- 
self on  the  brink  of  war.  Herbert  and  I  were  walking 
home  from  our  studios.  He  stopped  to  buy  the  paper 
that  the  boy  on  a  bicycle  was  just  giving  our  news- 
woman.  Long  experience  had  taught  us  that  the  noon 
paper  never  gave  anything  new.  But  one  was  always 
afraid  to  miss  something.  That's  why  afternoon 
papers  are  able  to  bring  out  so  many  editions.  When 
we  read  this  message,  we  realized  that  the  President 
must  be  at  the  end  of  his  rope,  and  that  if  Germany 
persisted  in  her  intention  to  declare  unlimited  sub- 
marine warfare,  our  entering  into  the  conflict  was 
inevitable. 

The  news  of  the  rupture  of  diplomatic  relations  ar- 
rived on  a  Sunday  morning  when  the  streets  were  full. 
The  dispatches  from  Washington  contained  long  ex- 
cerpts from  President  Wilson's  splendid  speech.  Re- 
lief rather  than  joy  was  the  feeling  we  all  had.  We 
said  to  ourselves,  "At  last!"  Some  of  our  intimate 
French  friends,  when  we  discussed  the  break  and  the 
reasons  the  President  gave  for  it,  wondered  why 
those  reasons  had  not  been  valid  long  before.  It  was 
an  echo  of  our  own  thoughts.  But  French  and  Amer- 
ican were  so  happy  over  the  new  stand  taken  by  the 
United  States,  over  the  new  note  in  the  leadership  of 
President  Wilson,  that  we  did  not  allow  ourselves  to 
criticize  the  past.  All  was  forgiven  on  that  last  Sun- 

263 


PARIS  VISTAS 

day  of  January.  Over  night  President  Wilson  became 
the  most  popular  man  in  France.  And  just  one  week 
before  my  Parisian  friends  had  been  reading  his  Senate 
speech  of  January  twenty-second  with  a  puzzled  ex- 
pression that  turned  into  anger  and  indignation. 

We  had  an  excellent  barometer  of  what  the  French 
bourgeois  and  universitaire  was  thinking  in  our  dear  old 
family  doctor.  Doctor  Charon  had  come  to  us  first  in 
the  Rue  Servandoni  days.  Christine  was  sick  one  night 
for  the  first  and  only  time  in  her  babyhood.  The  young 
father  and  mother  were  scared  to  death.  Doctor 
Charon,  whom  we  had  not  known  before,  was  called 
in.  He  assured  us  that  there  was  nothing  fatal. 
After  that  he  came  again  for  colds.  He  knew  how  to 
scold  us  and  make  us  obey.  Since  then  he  has  been 
the  family  friend  and  censor,  entering  into  our  life  as 
only  a  doctor  can  do.  He  always  stopped  to  chat  a 
minute.  His  only  son  was  at  the  war :  he  and  his  wife 
and  two  daughters  were  doing  hospital  work.  I  often 
felt  that  his  heart  was  breaking.  He  suffered  from 
the  war  in  his  soul,  which  was  far  worse  than  suffering 
in  the  flesh. 

During  the  years  of  uncomfortable  neutrality,  Her- 
bert and  I  tried  to  reassure  Doctor  Charon  and  make 
him  se*e  how  impossible  it  was  that  all  our  compatriots, 
who  had  never  been  in  France  and  knew  nothing  about 
France,  could  feel  the  way  we  did.  But  we  often  felt 
that  he  loved  us  despite  the  fact  that  we  were  Amer- 

264 


APRIL  SIXTH 

leans.  On  January  23,  1917,  Doctor  Charon  talked  to 
us  at  length  about  the  Senate  speech.  The  way  Presi- 
dent Wilson's  mind  worked  was  beyond  him.  He 
despaired  of  America.  On  January  30  he  came  in 
with  a  face  transfigured,  held  out  his  arms,  and  kissed 
me.  We  both  cried. 

"I  do  not  yet  understand  about  your  President,"  he 
said  simply,  "but  you  were  right  in  telling  me  not  to 
lose  hope  in  him.  To-day  he  is  our  prophet." 

During  the  two  years  that  followed,  Doctor  and 
Madame  Charon,  in  common  with  all  our  French 
friends,  had  a  revelation  of  the  heart  of  America  beating 
for  France.  They  saw  at  close  range  our  relief  work. 
Not  only  did  we  give  money  without  stint,  but  hundreds 
of  Americans — who  had  never  known  France  before — 
came  over  to  show  by  tireless  personal  service  that  the 
friends  of  France  were  not  limited  to  the  Americans 
resident  in  France  or  to  those  who  had  some  point  of 
personal  contact.  In  the  end  they  realized  that  we 
were  ready  to  be  as  prodigal  with  our  blood  as  with 
our  treasure.  When  my  husband  received  his  red  rib- 
bon, the  Charons  gave  a  dinner  for  us.  Doctor  Charon 
said:  "I  have  one  ambition  now  in  life — to  go  to 
America." 

As  I  have  related  in  another  chapter,  February  and 
March  were  tragic  months  for  Paris.  Zero  weather 
and  no  coal  made  a  combination  that  took  our  attention 
away  from  the  evolution  of  public  opinion  across  the 

265 


PARIS  VISTAS 

seas.  Germany  stood  firm,  resisting  the  threats  and 
disregarding  the  warnings  of  President  Wilson's  notes. 
But  we  had  such  an  inherent  mistrust  of  notes  that  we 
were  not  sure  until  the  end  of  March  that  some  sort 
of  a  modus  vivendi  would  not  be  patched  up,  as  after 
the  Lusitania  and  the  Sussex. 

Were  we  even  sure  in  the  first  week  of  April? 
Herbert  told  me  to  get  out  our  flags  that  had  been  put 
carefully  away  since  1914.  Although  I  was  not  as 
optimistic  as  my  husband,  I  brought  out  the  flags  and 
mended  them.  I  needed  two  for  our  studios.  My 
voice  trembled  when  I  asked  for  the  stars  and  stripes 
at  the  Bon  Marche.  They  had  a  large  stock,  mostly 
brand-new.  They  were  counting  upon  the  imminent 
event.  The  sales  girl  told  me  that  they  had  sold  more 
American  flags  in  the  last  fortnight  than  those  of  the 
other  Allies  put  together  since  the  beginning  of  the 
war.  She  said  it  gleefully.  The  new  broom  was 
sweeping  clean.  With  all  my  pride  in  my  own  country, 
I  had  my  misgivings  about  too  great  a  demonstration. 
Why  did  not  the  Government  or  some  of  the  patriotic 
organizations  make  a  propaganda  to  have  the  flags  of 
the  Allies  ready  for  display  everywhere  with  the 
American  and  French  when  the  day  arrived?  I  sug- 
gested this  to  my  husband,  who  was  a  member  of  the 
Union  des  Grandes  Associations  Franchises.  I  knew 
how  I  would  feel  if  I  were  a  Britisher  who  had  been 
there  from  the  beginning.  Would  not  the  French  show 

266 


APRIL  SIXTH 

that  wonderful  characteristic  of  theirs,  the  sense  of  pro- 
portion*? 

But  when  the  day  arrived,  my  internationalism  and 
cosmopolitanism,  a  gradual  and  unconscious  growth, 
suddenly  disappeared.  It  was  a  reversion  to  type.  I 
became  blatantly  American  again,  and  gloried  in  the 
fact  that  everywhere  it  was  all  Stars  and  Stripes.  Why 
not1?  This  was  America's  day.  And  ever  since,  de- 
spite the  theoretical  internationalism  (or  super- 
nationalism)  I  have  advocated  in  common  with  my 
husband,  I  fear  that  practically  I  have  been  lapsing 
into  a  narrow  nationalism.  It  is  a  curious  phenomenon. 
I  do  not  attempt  to  explain  it. 

On  Thursday,  April  sixth,  Herbert  went  to  the 
American  Club  to  lunch.  Settling  down  to  work  had 
been  hard  that  morning.  We  were  feverishly  await- 
ing the  news.  I  was  just  starting  lunch  with  the  chil- 
dren when  the  telephone  rang.  Herbert's  voice  said, 
"Put  out  your  flag,"  and  then  he  hung  up. 

An  hour  later  he  came  in  a  taxi-cab  with  Carroll 
Greenough,  an  American  architect  who  lived  near  us. 
We  went  for  his  wife.  Then  the  four  of  us  did  the 
Grands  Boulevards,  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  and  the  prin- 
cipal streets  in  the  heart  of  Paris.  As  if  by  magic 
the  American  flag  appeared  everywhere.  Paris  had 
not  waited  for  the  poster  of  the  Municipality,  in  which 
the  President  of  the  Municipal  Counsel  called  upon 
his  fellow  citizens  to  pavoiser  in  honor  of  the  new 

267 


PARIS  VISTAS 

Ally.  Americans  though  we  were,  we  had  never  seen 
so  many  American  flags.  They  expressed  the  hope 
which,  though  long  deferred,  had  not  made  the  heart 
sick. 

We  went  to  the  Ambassadeurs  for  tea.  The  terraces 
were  full.  We  watched  the  crowds  passing  up  and 
down  the  Champs-Elysees.  All  that  was  lacking  was 
the  orchestra  to  play  the  Marseillaise  and  the  Star 
Spangled  Banner.  There  had  been  no  orchestras  in 
Paris  since  the  beginning  of  the  war. 

But  the  music  was  in  our  hearts. 


268 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE    VANGUARD    OF    THE    A.    E.    F. 

WHAT  class  are  yuh  goin'  to  git?" 
The  voice  came  from  a  wee  island  of  khaki 
in  a  solid  mass  of  horizon  blue.  American  soldiers! 
The  first  I  had  seen.  The  American  army  was  to  the 
French  army  as  were  these  half  dozen  doughboys  to  the 
station  full  of  shabby  poilus.  The  Gare  du  Nord  has 
many  memories  for  me,  happy  and  poignant,  but  this 
will  always  be  the  most  precious.  Shall  I  ever  forget 
the  ticket  window  around  which  our  boys  crowded? 
We  had  been  saying  "How  long,  O  Lord,  how  long?" 
And  now  they  were  with  us.  I  moved  nearer  to  them. 

"Why,  there  's  classes — foist,  second,  and  thoid — 
accordin'  to  what  yuh  pay — see?" 

"Aw!     What  dya  mean?" 

"Buy  fift'  and  we  '11  ride  foist!" 

I  volunteered  to  help  them  count  their  change. 

"She  don't  understand  and  neither  do  we,"  said  one, 
hitching  a  thumb  in  the  general  direction  of  the  girl 
behind  the  grating. 

"Guess  she  's  got  mush  in  her  brain." 

"Or  feathers !"  laughed  another. 

It  was  not  the  class  they  would  ride  that  was  at  the 

269 


PARIS  VISTAS 

bottom  of  the  trouble.  I  found  that  the  boys  wanted 
to  go  to  Versailles.  They  had  come  into  the  Gare  du 
Nord  with  baggage  two  days  in  advance  of  General 
Pershing  and  his  staff.  Their  officer  had  given  them 
an  afternoon  off,  but  told  them  that  they  were  not  to 
wander  around  Paris.  He  had  suggested  Versailles. 
This  was  the  only  station  they  knew,  and  so  they  were 
trying  to  get  to  Vers-ales.  I  took  them  to  the  Gare  du 
Montparnasse  and  put  them  on  their  way.  This  really 
was  not  necessary.  I  soon  discovered  the  American 
soldiers  needed  no  interpreter.  They  always  got  to 
whatever  destination  they  set  their  minds  upon.  But 
this  little  scene  at  the  Gare  du  Nord  was  typical  of  the 
spirit  of  our  boys  during  the  two  years  they  were  in 
France.  Instead  of  getting  angry,  they  smiled  and 
"joshed."  In  their  very  nature  they  had  the  secret  of 
getting  along  with  the  French. 

The  afternoon  of  General  Pershing's  arrival,  the 
streets  around  the  Gare  du  Nord  held  a  crowd  the  like 
of  which  I  had  not  seen  in  Paris  since  the  war  began. 
It  was  the  same  at  the  Place  de  la  Concorde.  Rooms 
had  been  engaged  for  the  Pershing  party  at  the  Hotel 
Crillon.  The  ovation  at  the  Gare  du  Nord  and  along 
the  route  of  the  procession  was  remarkable.  When 
General  Pershing  came  out  on  the  balcony  of  the 
Crillon  it  was  a  scene  worthy  of  the  occasion.  Paris 
was  not  greeting  an  individual.  France  was  welcom- 
ing America. 

270 


THE  VANGUARD  OF  THE  A.  E.  F. 

For  the  first  time  since  the  beginning  of  the  war  Paris 
celebrated.  The  danger  that  still  menaced  the  city 
and  the  bereavements  of  three  years  were  forgotten  in 
the  frenzy  of  joy  over  what  everyone  believed  was  the 
entry  of  a  decisive  factor.  Since  April  sixth  insidious 
defeatist  propaganda  had  permeated  the  mass  of  the 
people.  Seizing  upon  the  failure  of  the  Champagne 
offensive  in  April,  which  had  caused  mutinies  in  the 
army  that  could  not  be  hushed  up,  German  agents — 
often  through  unconscious  tools — spread  their  lies 
among  a  discouraged  people.  America  had  declared 
war,  yes,  but  she  intended  to  limit  her  intervention  to 
money  and  materials.  No  American  'army  would  risk 
crossing  the  ocean.  The  Americans,  like  the  British, 
were  ready  "to  fight  to  the  last  Frenchman." 

Seeing  was  believing.  Here  were  the  American  uni- 
forms. The  arrival  of  the  first  American  troops,  we 
were  assured,  would  be  announced  within  the  next  few 
days.  Perhaps  they  had  already  landed  at  some  port 
in  France?  To  baffle  the  submarines  we  understood 
that  the  censorship  must  be  vigorous.  At  any  rate, 
an  American  general  and  his  staff  would  not  be  in  Paris 
without  the  certainty  of  an  army  to  follow. 

Another  source  of  conviction  was  afforded  us  in  the 
fact  that  on  this  day  of  General  Pershing's  coming 
Marshal  Joffre  made  his  first  public  appearance  in 
Paris.  Parisians  had  never  had  a  chance  before  to 
acclaim  the  victor  of  the  Marne. 

271 


PARIS  VISTAS 

The  Americans  set  up  their  headquarters  in  two  small 
hotels  at  the  end  of  the  Rue  de  Constantine,  opposite 
the  Invalides.  Immediately  the  boys  of  the  head- 
quarters detachment  marked  out  a  diamond  on  the 
Esplanade  des  Invalides,  and  passers-by  had  to  learn  to 
dodge  base-balls.  The  police  did  not  interfere. 
Nothing  was  too  good  for  the  Americans.  All  Paris 
flocked  to  see  for  themselves  the  khaki  uniforms  and  to 
learn  the  mysteries  of  our  national  game.  There  was 
always  a  crowd  around  the  door  of  General  Pershing's 
home  in  the  Rue  de  Varenne. 

The  events  of  the  next  few  weeks  will  always  seem 
like  a  dream  to  me.  The  scene  of  the  drama  that  has 
influenced  so  profoundly  the  history  of  the  world  was 
shifted  from  Paris.  I  went  to  Saint-Nazaire  to  see  our 
boys  land  and  later  to  their  first  training-camp  in  the 
country  of  Jeanne  d'Arc.  Many  of  them  did  not  see 
Paris.  Their  idea  of  France  was  a  long  journey  of 
days  and  nights  in  freight-cars,  with  interminable  stops, 
and  ending  in  small  villages  where  they  met  rain  and 
mud.  But  a  fortunate  battalion  of  the  First  Division 
had  the  honor  of  being  the  vanguard  of  the  A.  E.  F. 
in  Paris. 

They  were  lodged  in  the  Caserne  de  Reuilly.  On 
the  Fourth  of  July,  declared  a  national  holiday  by 
grateful  France,  they  paraded  through  the  streets  of  our 
city.  We  were  to  become  accustomed  to  American 
soldiers  in  Paris.  But  these  first  boys  made  a  unique 

272 


In  an  Old  Quarter 


THE  VANGUARD  OF  THE  A.  E.  F. 

impression.  The  moment  of  their  coming  was 
psychological.  Paris  never  needed  encouragement 
more. 

After  this  excitement  we  had  another  long  and 
anxious  wait  of  eight  months.  The  Americans  came 
each  week,  but  in  dribbles.  Between  Gondrecourt  and 
the  three  ports  of  Saint-Nazaire,  Bordeaux  and  Brest, 
it  was  necessary  to  construct  the  lines  of  communica- 
tion while  a  great  army  in  America  was  being  gathered 
and  trained.  The  defeatist  propaganda  started  up 
again,  the  word  was  spread  that  the  Americans  were 
coming  too  slowly  and  that  in  France  they  were  to  be 
seen  everywhere  but  at  the  front.  Were  not  thev 
French  still  holding  the  lines  against  odds  and  giving 
their  lives,  while  the  Americans  were  in  safety*?  De- 
spite the  fact  that  General  Pershing  moved  G.  H.  Q. 
from  Paris  to  Chaumont  in  the  Haute-Marne,  the  num- 
ber of  American  soldiers  in  Paris,  through  the  necessi- 
ties of  the  S.  O.  S.  increased  rapidly.  The  Hotel 
Mediterranee,  near  the  Gare  de  Lyon,  was  the  first 
large  building  taken  over.  Then  the  Elysee-Palace 
Hotel  on  the  Avenue  des  Champs-Elysees  was  char- 
tered. The  American  flag  soon  appeared  over  barracks, 
garages  and  other  buildings  in  all  parts  of  the  city. 
You  could  go  nowhere  without  seeing  the  American 
uniform,  and  our  automobiles  learned  to  drive  as 
rapidly  as  the  French.  We  got  accustomed  to  hearing 
English  spoken  on  the  streets.  The  Red  Cross,  the 

273 


PARIS  VISTAS 

Y.M.C.A.,  the  Knights  of  Columbus,  and  the  Jewish 
Welfare  Board,  established  hotels  and  restaurants  and 
reading-rooms  and  leased  theatres.  Our  American 
Ambulance  at  Neuilly,  taken  over  by  the  army,  became 
only  one  of  a  number  of  hospitals. 

Not  until  the  spring  offensive  of  the  next  year  were 
the  Americans  able  to  come  in  large  numbers.  Then 
suddenly  a  single  month  brought  as  many  as  the  nine 
preceding  months.  We  had  our  half  million,  our 
million,  our  two  millions. 

The  faith  of  the  French  in  us  revived  with  Cantigny 
and  Chateau-Thierry.  I  am  ahead  of  my  chronology. 
But  the  men  who  first  fell  under  the  American  flag 
were  those  who  marched  through  the  streets  of  Paris, 
on  July  Fourth,  1917.  On  parade  they  gave  us  hope. 
Fighting  they  gave  us  certitude  of  victory. 


1918 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE    DARKEST    DAYS 

PROBLEMS  of  war  time  housekeeping  in  France 
did  not  go  back  to  1914.  The  learned  political 
economists  who  demonstrated  to  their  own  satisfaction 
that  a  general  European  war  would  not  last  a  year 
were  dead  wrong.  Millions  were  mobilized.  Nations 
were  at  each  other's  throats.  The  Germans  were  able 
to  retaliate  against  the  naval  blockade  by  submarine 
warfare  that  threatened  to  decrease  seriously  our  own 
communications  with  the  outside  world.  But  some- 
how we  managed  to  go  through  year  after  year  without 
feeling  the  pinch  of  decreased  productivity.  And 
somehow  we  accepted  the  inflation  of  currency  and 
continued  to  subscribe  cheerfully  to  successive  war 
loans  with  money  that  came  from  God  knows  where. 
One  hears  now  much  about  how  we  suffered  in  1915  and 
1916.  Morally  speaking,  I  suppose  we  did  suffer  and 
that  we  were  aware  of  the  strain  as  time  went  on.  But 
from  a  material  point  of  view  the  war  did  not  make 
itself  felt  much  until  1917.  It  was  only  in  the  spring 
of  that  year  that  a  cartoonist  was  inspired  to  draw  a 
necklace  of  anthracite,  tipped  off  with  an  egg  for  a 
pendant,  over  the  caption,  "Her  Jewels."  Coal  cards, 

277 


PARIS  VISTAS 

sugar  cards,  and  bread  cards  were  to  us  the  signs  of 
Germany's  weakness. 

Successive  Cabinets  realized  well  enough  the  pru- 
dence of  anticipatory  restrictions.  In  the  autumn  of 
1916  the  newspapers  put  forth  a  ballon  d'essai. 
Every  day  they  published  a  homily  on  the  virtue  of 
practicing  economy.  It  had  no  effect  on  my  servants, 
this  constant  warning  of  a  shortage  to  come.  No 
restaurants  obeyed  the  voluntary  rationing  measures. 
The  Government  did  not  dare  to  introduce  obligatory 
rationing.  Public  opinion  rebels  against  restrictions 
of  individual  liberty.  We  had  to  feel  the  pinch  before 
rationing  measures  were  tolerated. 

Sugar  cards  came  first.  They  were  "put  over"  on 
the  public  during  the  rejoicing  over  the  intervention 
of  the  United  States.  Coal  cards  were  instituted  only 
after  the  bitter  lesson  of  the  late  winter  months  of  1917 
bid  fair  to  repeat  itself.  Not  until'October,  1917,  did 
I  have  to  put  my  signature  as  chef  de  famille  (my 
husband  was  so  often  away)  on  an  application  for 
bread  cards  handed  me  by  the  concierge.  A  fourth 
New  Year  of  war  came  and  went  before  we  experienced 
what  we  had  read  about  in  other  countries — real  lack 
of  necessities.  The  reserves  of  everything  gave  out 
suddenly.  For  the  first  time  ability  to  spend  money 
freely  did  not  solve  household  problems. 

Some  difficulties  were  insoluble.  They  were  the 
difficulties  centering  around  a  shortage  of  coal  supply. 

278 


THE  DARKEST  DAYS 

I  never  realized  before  that  in  our  modern  civilization 
coal  is  really  a  dominating  factor  in  making  tolerable 
existence  in  the  city.  The  winter  before  the  sudden 
giving  out  of  coal  affected  only  our  heating.  In  the 
first  months  of  1918  coal  rationing  led  to  cutting  down 
on  gas,  electricity  and  water.  In  modern  apartments, 
just  as  there  is  no  way  to  heat  them  except  by  radiators, 
there  is  no  way  to  light  them  except  by  electricity  and 
no  way  to  have  hot  water  except  by  turning  on  the 
spigot.  We  were  in  what  the  French  call  a  cercle 
vicieux.  We  had  a  fox-and-geese-and-corn  problem. 
For  instance,  when  a  municipal  ordinance  forbade  giv- 
ing hot  water  except  on  Saturdays  and  Sundays,  your 
first  thought  was  to  heat  water  on  the  kitchen  gas-stove. 
But  your  allowance  for  gas  was  insufficient  for  cooking. 
Nor  could  you  use  gas  for  lighting  to  save  electricity. 
Petroleum  for  lamps  or  cooking  was  unobtainable. 
Everyone  made  a  rush  for  candles  and  wood  alcohol. 
They  gave  out.  When  you  thought  of  honey  and  jams 
to  make  up  to  the  children  what  they  lacked  in  sugar, 
everyone  else  thought  of  honey  and  jams  at  the  same 
time.  We  lived  on  the  sixth  floor.  The  electricity 
rationing  made  possible  running  the  elevator  only  at 
certain  hours.  And  when  the  elevator  broke  down,  all 
the  steel  was  going  into  cannon  and  all  the  workers 
were  turning  out  munitions.  You  just  walked  up  six 
flights  of  stairs  all  the  time. 

Aside  from  cooking  and  baths  and  heat  and  light, 

279 


PARIS  VISTAS 

the  coal  shortage  affected  your  laundry.  So  you 
could  n't  change  linen  more  frequently  to  compensate 
for  lost  baths.  In  the  old  days  the  laundress  would 
cast  her  eyes  around  for  more  stuff  to  pack  into  her 
bundle,  and  if  you  gave  her  a  free  hand,  would  gather 
up  things  that  had  never  been  soiled.  Now  she  picked 
out  of  the  basket  what  she  saw  fit  to  take.  In  the  same 
way,  I  used  to  struggle  to  keep  my  milk  supply  down. 
It  was  a  common  trick  for  the  dairy  people  to  load  you 
up  with  milk  and  butter  and  eggs  and  cheese  in  collusion 
with  your  cook.  Now  you  had  to  beg  for  enough  milk 
to  give  the  babies  a  cup  apiece  a  day;  butter  arrived  in 
exchange  for  a  heavy  tip;  and  eggs  appeared  not  when 
you  ordered  them  but  when  the  dairy  chose  to  send  them 
— which  was  rarely. 

To  have  the  laundress  acting  like  that,  and  other 
people  acting  like  that,  was  living  in  Alice's  Looking- 
Glass  House.  Things  were  contrariwise.  One  day 
the  laundress  came  to  tell  me  that  she  could  take  no 
more  work.  The  wash  house  where  the  work  used  to 
be  done  had  shut  down.  My  poor  woman  was  dis- 
solved in  tears  to  think  that  a  business  that  she  had 
spent  twenty-three  years  in  building  up  had  to  drop  its 
customers.  I  did  the  best  I  could  by  getting  in  a  scrub 
woman  for  the  day  to  wash  the  most  important  things 
in  cold  water  in  the  bath-room.  That  was  hard 
enough.  But  how  dry  them*?  Old  tricks  would  not 
go:  there  was  no  heat  in  the  radiators.  You  see,  as  I 

280 


THE  DARKEST  DAYS 

said,  all  the  troubles  came  at  once  and  were  due 
primarily  to  coal  shortage.  There  was  no  remedy. 
Insufficient  food  supply  because  of  lack  of  means  of 
transportation.  Insufficient  lack  of  means  of  trans- 
portation because  of  shortage  of  coal  for  freight  engines. 

I  bought  dark  jersey  dresses  for  the  babies,  and  lived 
in  dark  things  myself. 

I  was  fortunate  in  having  a  good  cook  and  nurse  who 
stayed  with  me  through  thick  and  thin.  But  when  I 
came  to  get  a  femme  de  menage  for  chamber  work  I 
realized  how  justified  were  the  complaints  of  most  of 
my  friends.  Women  could  make  big  money  in  muni- 
tion factories.  The  large  country  element,  scared  away 
in  1914  or  called  home  to  take  the  place  of  men  at  the 
front,  did  not  feed  Paris  with  help  as  in  peace  time.  I 
had  a  succession  of  giggling  sixteen-year-olds,  pottering 
grandmothers,  and  useless  loafers.  One  femme  de 
menage  I  called  "Toothless."  She  thought  it  was  an 
English  pet  name,  and  beamed  under  it.  She  was  a 
farm  hand  from  the  Marne  district.  The  family  fled 
before  the  Germans.  She  was  left  in  charge  until  the 
soldiers  drove  her  out.  "Toothless"  put  the  chickens 
in  a  little  hay  wagon,  tied  the  cows  to  the  back  of  it, 
and,  with  her  employer's  silver  on  her  lap,  drove  alone 
through  the  night  to  safety.  She  was  herded  with  other 
evacuated  peasants  on  a  steamer  bound  for  Bordeaux. 
The  ship  was  torpedoed  and  she  lost  her  teeth  by  the 
explosion.  I  felt  very  sorry,  and  regarded  her  some- 

281 


PARIS  VISTAS 

what  as  a  heroine  until  the  truth  dawned  on  me  that  she 
was  speaking  of  a  plate.  I  did  n't  think  of  this  my- 
self. She  asked  me  for  an  advance  one  day,  explaining 
that  she  had  to  pay  it  down  to  a  dentist  when  she 
ordered  more  teeth.  A  stranded  Russian  student  fol- 
lowed "Toothless."  She  held  out  until  her  prosperous 
father  sent  money  from  Petrograd  through  the  Russian 
Embassy.  Try  as  hard  as  I  could  and  offer  more  than 
I  wanted  to  pay,  I  could  not  get  a  regular  third  servant. 
I  used  to  be  amazed  at  the  letters  from  American 
friends,  asking  me  to  send  them  servants.  It  must  have 
been  the  popular  notion  in  the  United  States  that 
France  was  full  of  women  eager  for  the  chance  to  work. 

In  the  fourth  year  of  the  war,  we  began  to  feel  the 
drain  on  the  nation's  manhood.  The  constant  killing 
and  crippling  and  calling  to  the  colors  of  older  men 
and  boys  made  it  almost  impossible  to  get  any  work 
done.  Bells  or  lights  or  plumbing  out  of  order — you 
waited  for  months.  Where  in  1915  I  had  found  half 
a  dozen  paper-hangers  and  painters  eager  to  bid  against 
each  other  fof  the  job  of  renovating  my  studio,  I  had  to 
beg  and  bribe  men  to  come  in  1918.  It  took  me  four 
months  to  get  what  I  wanted  done.  Herbert  became 
expert  in  carrying  trunks  and  boxes:  but  that  did  him 
no  harm.  There  is  a  bright  side  to  everything. 

Lines  began  to  form  -at  the  grocers  and  the  butchers. 
One  waited  and  waited  and  waited.  My  servants 
spent  most  of  the  day  in  the  early  months  of  1918  in 

282 


THE  DARKEST  DAYS 

sugar  and  meat-lines.  All  over  Paris  it  was  faire  la 
queue  for  everything,  even  for  tobacco  and  matches. 

Although  it  was  an  expensive  proposition,  I  found 
it  necessary,  with  my  large  family  and  constant  guests, 
to  buy  groceries  through  an  agent.  A  large  English 
firm  seemed  to  be  able  to  furnish  everything — if  you 
paid  their  price.  The  order-man  who  came  around 
every  week  was  a  rascal  named  Grimes.  He  had  the 
genius  of  a  book-agent,  and  worked  you  for  an  order 
by  playing  on  your  fears.  Here  is  a  monologue  that  I 
wrote  out  one  day  just  to  record  how  Grimes  sold  things. 

"Rice*?  First-class  American  rice?"  (Why  Grimes 
called  rice  "American"  was  more  than  I  could  under- 
stand.) "Still  got  a  little  of  it — please  don't  ask  me 
the  price.  Don't  think  of  that  now.  Better  let  me 
put  you  down  for  a  hundred  pounds  of  it  and  just  shut 
your  eyes  to  money.  Golden  syrup*?  Just  brought 
three  cases  of  it  up  from  Bordeaux  myself.  No  telling 
when  we  will  see  any  more.  The  submarines  are  worse 
than  ever:  awful,  is  n't  it,  but  it 's  best  that  the  news- 
papers don't  tell  us  the  truth.  I  'm  going  to  let  you 
have  two  dozen  tins  of  syrup  if  you  don't  tell  anyone. 
It 's  on  account  of  your  kiddies.  I  recommend  that 
you  don't  let  older  people  touch  it.  Stack  it  away  for 
the  time  when  your  sugar  card — I  'm  not  pessimistic, 
but  I  believe  you  can't  be  too  sure  about  sugar  cards. 
A  funny  fellow  over  at  our  place  said  a  neat  thing: 
'It 's  hard  to  believe  in  a  paper  shortage  when  the 

283 


PARIS  VISTAS 

Government  has  voted  sugar  cards  and  those  new 
identity  cards.'  Biscuits,  when  have  you  and  I  seen  a 
biscuit?  I  got  a  few  cases  in  from  America.  I  '11  let 
you  have  some.  I  '11  reserve  a  couple  of  hams  and  some 
sides  of  bacon  and  hang  them  in  our  cellar  for  you. 
Gad,  you  're  lucky  to  have  those  four  babies.  It 's  only 
because  they  need  the  bacon  this  winter  that  I  give  it  to 
you.  Now,  did  n't  I  tell  you  that  you  must  not  think 
about  money?  Trust  me  to  give  you  a  square  price. 
It 's  safe  to  say  that  the  beans  and  other  dried  vege- 
tables I  'm  letting  you  have  will  make  you  shiver  when 
you  get  the  bill.  But  if  this  order  figures  up  to  two 
thousand  francs,  you  can  rest  assured  that  three  months 
from  now  it  would  cost  you  three  thousand  francs. 
And  six  months  from  now,  with  all  the  good  will  in  the 
world,  I  could  n't  get  you  the  stuff. 

"No  use  mentioning  flour.  Can't  give  you  any. 
They  say  that  the  Government  is  meeting  on  the  quiet 
half  the  price  of  the  flour  before  the  bakers  see  it. 
Comes  high  but  it  pays  'em  to  keep  the  people  quiet. 
Everything  else  can  go  up,  but  not  bread.  No  m'am,  I 
say  it  positively;  got  to  give  'em  bread  and  the  chance 
to  have  a  little  fun."  (I  'm  sure  that  Grimes  never 
studied  Roman  history,  but  he  had  arrived  at  the 
formula  of  panem  et  circenses.}  "But  we  shan't  starve. 
Better  off  in  France  than  they  are  in  England  or 
Germany.  Save  the  bread  for  lunch  and  tea :  give  the 
children  a  cereal  in  the  morning.  Just  by  luck,  I  have 

284 


THE  DARKEST  DAYS 

a  few  cases  of  American  oatmeal  and  hominy  grits. 

"Of  course,  the  porridge  means  milk.  I  know  what 
you  're  going  to  say.  But  I  've  got  hold  of  powdered 
milk  made  in  Brittany.  They  say  it 's  an  American 
invention.  Only  one  big  tin  to  a  person,  but  then 
you  're  six  and  we  '11  count  the  babies  as  grown  ups. 
You  can't  tell  how  long  they  '11  be  able  to  keep  trans- 
porting milk  to  the  city.  Order  as  much  canned  goods 
as  I  can  give  you.  Canneries  are  running  out  of  tin. 
Food  we  put  up  in  paraffined  paste-board  does  n't  keep 
very  well,  and  there  is  mighty  little  paste-board. 

"It 's  a  good  thing  you  don't  depend  upon  cocktails 
to  keep  you  going.  I  have  a  big  auto-taxi  ticking  out 
there.  The  man  -who  is  going  to  pay  for  it  would  be 
glad  to  let  it  tick  all  night  just  so  he  got  what  is  inside. 
One  hundred  bottles  of  gin.  You  know,  the  ordinary 
five-franc  gin.  I  'm  going  to  get  thirty  francs  a  bottle 
at  the  Hotel  Meurice  bar.  But  they  '11  be  two  bottles 
short.  There  they  are — yours — right  under  my  hat  on 
the  table. 

"Now  please  let  me  read  over  the  order.  Not  a 
luxury  on  it.  Macaroni,  beans,  lentils,  prunes,  dried- 
apricots,  salt,  and  yes,  there  must  be  some  soap.  Better 
let  me  put  you  down  for  a  good  hundred  bars.  The 
Marseilles  people  tell  us  they  have  got  to  stop  making 
it  soon." 

Then  he  resumed  his  reading,  and  I  did  n't  dare  to 
say  a  word.  On  those  rare  occasions  I  was  pensive. 

285 


PARIS  VISTAS 

My  husband  would  say:  "You  don't  need  to  tell 
me.  That  scoundrel  Grimes  has  been  here.  Good 
Lord,  I  wish  we  had  an  anti-hording  law,  like 
England." 

"But,  oh,  Herbert,  the  children  you  know." 
I  tell  this  story  because  I  believe  it  illustrates  the 
thought  that  was  uppermost  in  the  minds  of  Paris 
women.  We  had  faith  in  our  armies.  We  stuck  to 
our  homes.  We  were  willing  to  stand  anything.  But 
the  constant  talk  of  food  shortage  got  on  our  nerves. 
We  pictured  our  children  without  milk  and  fats  and 
bread.  It  was  not  hard  for  the  Grimeses  to  fill  pages 
in  their  order-books.  And  you  could  not  reason  with 
us  that  laying  in  supplies  was  a  sin  against  the  com- 
munity. 

In  my  apartment-house  (and  it  was  the  same  all  over 
Paris  because  of  the  new  law)  the  water-heater  was 
having  a  good  rest.  I  used  to  have  the  kids  bathed 
every  night  in  the  week  except  Sunday.  Sunday  was  a 
real  day  of  rest.  My  servants  liked  to  go  to  early  mass 
and  Sunday  afternoon  was  "off"  for  them  and  for  the 
governess.  Circumstances  aided  in  keeping  this  side 
of  Sunday  as  my  Covenanter  grandfather  would  have 
had  it.  But  after  the  restrictions  you  bathed  Sunday 
morning  or  never.  And  you  had  to  wait  for  your  bath. 
Inferior  coal,  parsimoniously  stoked,  took  the  water- 
heater  a  long  time  to  get  going.  We  chose  the  next 
best  to  godliness.  Church  attendance  fell  off.  The 

286 


THE  DARKEST  DAYS 

lawmakers    who   restricted   bathing   to   Sunday   were 
anticlericals  as  well  as  traditionalists. 

I  had  been  putting  off  doing  over  the  apartment  and 
our  studios  each  spring  and  fall  since  the  war  began, 
saying  to  myself  that  I  would  wait  until  after  the  war. 
But  in  the  autumn  of  1917  the  time  had  come  to  do 
something.  The  painter  was  so  short  of  men  that  I  had 
to  wait  three  weeks  before  he  sent  someone  simply  to 
see  what  was  to  be  done  and  to  make  an  estimate.  The 
men  cleaned  half  the  paint  in  October.  They  never 
came  back  to  do  the  other  half.  I  was  tired  of  the  dull 
grey  wood-work  in  my  husband's  studio  and  the  painted 
grey  wainscotting  effect  that  ran  around  the  walls 
shoulder  high.  The  place  looked  like  a  battle-ship 
turned  wrong-side  out.  Standing  in  the  middle  of  that 
studio  and  looking  up  to  the  skylight,  I  felt  as  if  the 
hair  was  flying  right  off  the  top  of  my  head.  The 
time  came  when  I  could  stand  it  no  longer.  The 
painter's  soldier  son,  home  on  permission,  agreed  with 
me.  But  the  father  shook  his  head  when  I  asked  him 
to  paint  the  lower  part  a  cheery  buff  and  the  upper  part 
cream-color.  He  had  no  helpers.  I  pled  with  him 
then  to  give  me  the  paint  properly  mixed,  lend  me 
brushes  and  ladders,  and  I  would  send  for  them  and 
do  the  work  myself.  It  took  me  a  whole  morning  to 
remove  a  part  of  the  imitation  wainscotting.  Then 
other  things  more  pressing  came  up.  My  husband, 
who  had  been  oblivious  to  the  old  combination,  pro- 

287 


PARIS  VISTAS 

tested.  Fortunately,  one  of  my  wounded  filleuls,  who 
was  able  to  get  around  without  crutches,  did  the  rest. 
I  helped  when  I  could :  for  I  do  love  to  paint. 

The  rugs  in  my  drawing-room  needed  cleaning.  At 
the  Bon  Marche  they  offered  to  write  my  name  down 
in  their  books.  But  they  warned  me  that  they  could 
not  call  for  the  rugs  for  three  weeks,  and  that  I  must 
understand  that  they  could  not  be  delivered  before 
January.  In  the  end  I  sent  the  rugs  to  three  different 
cleaning  places  and  waited  from  four  to  six  weeks  to 
get  them  back. 

The  curtains  of  my  drawing-room  windows  were 
dark  green  velvet,  too  depressing  a  color  for  wartime. 
I  wonder  how  I  lived  with  them  so  long.  The  drawing- 
room  faces  north,  and  I  wanted  yellow  silk  curtains  to 
invite  the  sunshine  in.  The  curtains  should  be  a  frame 
for  the  best  picture  in  the  drawing-room — a  view  of 
Paris  that  is  the  reverse  of  the  picture  described  in  the 
first  pages  of  Zola's  Paris.  The  idea  ran  away  with 
me,  and  the  momentum  of  it  carried  me  through  the 
difficulties  I  found  when  I  tried  to  get  an  upholsterer 
to  make  the  curtains.  We  are  all  learning  new  trades. 
The  curtains  were  made  finally  by  an  artist,  who,  in 
order  to  earn  her  living  through  the  war  years,  learned 
to  do  retouching  of  photographs.  She  and  I  worked  to- 
gether at  those  curtains,  and  you  would  think  that  an 
upholsterer  made  them. 

Then  the  electric-bells — why  can't  they  be  fixed  so 

288 


THE  DARKEST  DAYS 

one  can  wind  them  up  like  a  clock?  They  would  not 
work;  that  was  certain.  I  unscrewed  their  little  tops 
and  punched  the  things  like  miniature  type-writer- 
spacers  which  the  buttons  ought  to  have  hit:  no  ring. 
Herbert  said  they  "needed  new  juice"  in  the  batteries. 
He  had  the  concierge  send  up  some  stuff  that  looked 
like  salt.  I  climbed  on  the  pantry  table  to  reach  the 
suspicious-looking  butter  crocks  hitched  to  twisted 
waxy  wires,  and  poured  in  the  stuff  with  water  accord- 
ing to  orders.  Still  no  ring.  Then  I  telephoned  for 
the  electrician.  Perhaps  he  would  consent  to  send  me 
Jean  Claude,  the  nearsighted,  who  put  in  the  wires 
when  we  first  came  and  had  always  been  able  to  make 
them  work.  Jean  Claude,  we  heard,  had  come  back 
from  the  war.  But  the  electrician  answered  that  Jean 
Claude  had  been  sent  to  the  front  again  in  spite  of  his 
eyes.  He  would  let  me  have  apprentices.  The  boys 
were  so  short  that  the  big  monkey-wrench  in  their  tool- 
kit was  as  long  as  their  forearms.  They  climbed  my 
step-ladder  and  tinkered  with  the  bells  for  most  of  an 
afternoon,  while  I  held  the  ladder  through  a  sense  of 
paternal  protection  for  anything  as  young  as  that  and 
was  glad  I  had  bandages  and  ointment  in  my  cupboard. 
When  evening  came,  they  were  like  the  boy  in  the  song, 
who  said : 

"I  don't  care  what  my  Teacher  says, 
I  cannot  do  that  sum !" 

289 


PARIS  VISTAS 

Quite  naturally  they  explained  that  they  must  ask  some- 
body at  the  shop  what  to  do  and  promised  to  come  back 
next  day. 

But  they  did  not  return.  Luckily  our  dentist  turned 
up  on  a  forty-eight  hour  furlough.  He  and  his  wife 
knocked  long  and  loud  at  our  front-door.  When  the 
first  surprise  and  delight  of  seeing  him  back,  looking  so 
bronzed  and  fit,  had  passed,  I  apologized  for  the  bell, 
and  told  my  sad  story.  The  problem  awakened  the 
dentist's  interest.  He  went  walking  about  tracing  the 
wires.  French  wires  are  all  just  hitched  somewhere 
above  the  picture  moulding  line  so  you  can  see  them. 

"Aha !"  came  from  the  pantry.  It  was  the  dentist's 
voice.  At  the  same  moment  there  was  a  prolonged 
ringing.  "That 's  what  comes  from  earning  your 
living  by  making  your  brains  speak  through  your 
fingers.  Quite  simple,  quite  simple,"  said  the  dentist. 
"I  only  arranged  this  little  affair  on  the  indicator.  It 
was  the  fourth  screw  from  the  back  at  the  upper  line 
of  the  plate." 

"Sakes,"  I  cried,  "get  down  from  there  before  you 
give  me  a  toothache !" 

We  all  go  through  the  world  lighting  up  its  darkness 
with  our  own  kind  of  lantern. 

Throughout  the  war  we  have  done  with  clothes  as 
with  our  houses — making  things  do.  That  went  very 
well  at  first.  But  in  the  fourth  winter  wear  and  tear 
had  to  be  met.  We  learned  a  new  scale  of  values  for 

290 


THE  DARKEST  DAYS 

little  things.  A  green  glass  lampshade  cost  fifteen 
francs,  and  you  were  lucky  to  get  it.  The  plug  to  stick 
in  the  hole  for  an  electric  light  you  scoured  the  town 
to  purchase  at  seven  francs.  The  steel  wire  your 
frotteur  uses  to  polish  floors  quadrupled  in  price.  My 
frotteur  went  to  war  long  ago.  His  substitute,  a 
chauffeur  in  the  postal  service,  gave  us  two  afternoons 
in  a  month — his  only  free  time.  One  day  he  defended 
his  service  gallantly  while  he  balanced  a  wet  brown 
cigarette  and  cake-walked  the  steel  wire  over  my  salon 
floor.  The  long  black  autos  marked  'pastes  et  depeches, 
terror  of  pedestrians  in  Paris,  do  not  really  go  faster 
than  other  autos.  We  think  they  do  because  they  were 
the  first  autos  to  be  used  extensively  in  the  city,  and 
the  fear  of  being  knocked  down  by  them  has  stuck  in 
the  minds  of  the  public. 

I  used  to  have  half  a  dozen  "nice  little  dressmakers'* 
on  my  list  and  as  many  milliners  to  whom  I  could  send 
friends  confidently.  But  as  the  war  dragged  on,  one 
after  the  other  they  disappointed  me.  If  it  were  not 
poor  cut  and  shoddy  materials,  it  was  inability  to  make 
delivery  anywhere  near  the  time  promised.  Everyone 
must  have  been  in  my  position,  because  when  I  turned 
to  the  department  stores  for  ready-made  things,  I  found 
long  lines  awaiting  for  a  turn  with  the  sales  woman. 
It  is  not  the  fault  of  dressmakers.  One  of  them  opened 
her  heart  to  me. 

"It  is  very  hard.     Like  everybody  else,  I  keep  hoping 

291 


PARIS  VISTAS 

the  war  will  end  suddenly.  My  reputation  was  made 
by  my  premieres  ouvrieres.  I  still  keep  on  paying  them 
good  wages  now  although  I  eat  into  my  savings  to  do 
it.  I  cannot  risk  having  my  best  girls  go  over  to 
competitors.  We  had  our  side  in  the  strike  of  the 
midinettes.  If  it  had  not  hit  me  hard,  I  should  have 
been  amused  to  see  these  pretty  young  things  dressed  in 
clothes  cheap  in  material  but  chic  go  marching  along 
the  boulevards  winning  policemen  over  at  every  corner. 
I  raised  pay  beyond  my  means,  and  have  granted  the 
semaine  anglais e.  But  they  would  go  to-morrow  for 
the  least  thing. 

"For  twenty  years  I  have  had  three  classes  of  cus- 
tomers in  Paris :  bourgeoises  of  the  solid  type,  who  come 
to  me  for  the  reserved  sort  of  clothes  that  sell  on  line, 
good  material  and  long  wear.  They  paid  my  rent. 
American  women,  who  came  in  the  summer,  or  hurried 
through  Paris  in  February,  headed  for  the  Riviera, 
wanted  an  advance  idea  rapidly  executed.  That  trade 
paid  my  running  expenses.  From  actresses  and  mis- 
tresses I  got  fantastic  prices  for  exclusive  models  I 
promised  not  to  repeat.  From  them  I  made  my  profits. 

"The  first  class  are  deft-fingered  like  all  French 
women,  and  do  their  own  dressmaking  now.  They  get 
their  mourning  from  the  houses  that  make  a  specialty 
of  that  trade.  The  Americans  do  not  come  as  they 
used  to.  My  profitable  trade  does  not  have  the  money 
for  fine  clothes  or  the  opportunity  to  show  them  off." 

292 


THE  DARKEST  DAYS 

Curious  it  seems  to  me  now,  when  I  sit  down  to  write 
a  chapter  about  the  darkest  days  of  the  war,  that  I  find 
myself  penning  page  after  page  of  the  story  of  petty 
household  difficulties.  But  I  want  to  be  what  the 
French  call  veridique.  This  is  how  we  felt  during  the 
first  winter  of  the  American  intervention,  when  the 
A.  E.  F.  was  coming  to  France  with  painful  slowness 
and  when  we  were  aware  that  the  Germans  were  pre- 
paring a  final  desperate  coup  before  Pershing  could 
marshal  an  army,  effective  in  training  and  equipment 
and  numbers.  In  January  and  February,  1918,  we 
were  under  the  reaction  of  the  Russian  collapse,  of  the 
awakening  to  the  falsehoods  concerning  German  mili- 
tary strength  that  had  been  spread  consistently  for  three 
years,  of  the  nervous  dread  that  the  submarines  might 
after  all  prevent  the  coming  of  the  Americans.  The 
little  things,  strikes,  petty  annoyances  of  daily  house 
keeping,  steady  increase  in  the  cost  of  living  made  the 
deep  impression. 

Then  came  the  new  German  onslaught,  the  daily 
long-distance  bombardment  and  the  aeroplane  raids 
every  night. 


293 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE    GOTHAS    AND    BIG    BERTHA 

IN  the  early  days  of  the  A.  E.  F.,  when  I  was  speaking 
to  American  soldiers  in  the  camps,  I  used  to  leave 
a  little  time  for  questions  at  the  end  of  my  talk.  The 
boys  always  had  something  in  their  heads  they  wanted 
to  talk  about.  The  scope  and  variety  of  their  questions 
were  amazing.  But  some  one  was  sure  to  ask : 

"Have  you  ever  been  in  an  air  raid1?" 

When  I  answered  in  the  affirmative,  he  would  say, 

"How  did  you  feel?" 

For  a  long  time  I  reasoned  like  the  poilu,  who  said 
that  if  his  number  was  on  a  German  shell  it  would  find 
him.  Herbert  and  I  worked  it  out  mathematically  that 
our  chances  of  being  hit  in  the  enormous  area  of  Paris 
were  not  as  great  as  of  being  knocked  down  by  one  of 
the  crazy  Indians  we  had  for  chauffeurs.  When  any 
left-over  of  a  man  could  get  a  license  to  run  a  taxi-cab 
in  Paris  after  a  course  of  two  days  at  fifty  francs,  why 
worry  about  bombs  dropped  from  an  occasional  Hun 
plane?  If  we  had  to  go,  we  'd  rather  be  in  our  beds. 
Better  to  be  warm  and  cosy  and  run  a  slight  risk,  an 
infinitesimal  risk,  than  the  almost  certain  alternative 
of  a  bad  cold  by  huddling  in  a  drafty  cellar.  I 

294 


THE  GOTHAS  AND  BIG  BERTHA 

told  the  boys  that  we  took  the  raids  as  a  matter  of 
course — all  in  the  day's  happenings.  I  explained  my 
philosophy,  which  was  this. 

I  once  knew  a  man  so  afraid  of  germs  that  he  made 
his  wife  wash  new  stockings  in  disinfectant  solution. 
He  kept  strict  surveillance  over  his  children's  diet.  No 
peanuts,  pink  lemonade,  little-store-around-the-corner 
candy  for  them.  They  were  taught  to  exercise  minute 
precautions  in  the  every-day  round  of  living.  And 
yet,  for  all  the  bother,  they  had  as  many  ailments  as 
other  children.  When  one  is  leading  a  normal  life 
and  has  only  imaginary  or  petty  things  to  contend  with, 
molehills  are  magnified.  When  one  is  facing  a  great 
crisis,  one  realizes  that  health  is  often  simply  a  matter 
of  lack  of  physical  selfconsciousness.  Most  of  the 
things  you  think  about  and  guard  against  do  not  hap- 
pen. I  remember  once  seeing  a  play,  in  which  a  Romeo 
and  a  Juliet  held  the  center  of  the  stage,  oblivious  to 
fighting  in  the  distance.  The  man  said:  "That  is 
only  a  battle;  this  is  love."  Some  people  see  the  honey 
in  the  pot;  others  cannot  take  their  eyes  off  the  fly. 

I  still  hold  to  this  way  of  taking  things.  It  saves 
a  lot  of  trouble  and  makes  for  peace  of  mind.  But 
somehow  it  did  not  work  out  to  the  end  in  the  air  raids. 
The  Germans  were  finally  able  to  reach  Paris  when 
they  wanted  to  and  in  appreciable  number. 

From  the  beginning  of  the  war  to  the  end  of  1917, 
air  raids  did  not  mean  much  to  Parisians.  We  read 

295 


PARIS  VISTAS 

about  the  awful  nights  of  terror  when  the  full  moon 
came  around  in  London,  and  the  heavy  bombardment 
of  cities  just  behind  the  front  lines  in  France.  Aero- 
planes did  come  occasionally  to  Paris.  But  up  to  1918 
we  experienced  curiosity  and  excitement  rather  than 
fear.  In  1915  we  saw  a  Zeppelin  over  the  Gare  Saint- 
Lazare.  I  can  recall  nothing  particularly  startling 
about  any  of  these  raids.  When  aeroplanes  came  and 
we  did  not  wake  the  babies,  they  scolded  us  the  next 
day.  They  wanted  to  see  the  fun.  Our  balconies, 
looking  over  the  city  from  the  sixieme  etage  of  the 
Boulevard  du  Montparnasse,  gave  us  a  wonderful  van- 
tage point  for  seeing  the  raids. 

One  January  night  at  the  beginning  of  1918,  the  fire 
engines  rushed  through  the  streets  with  their  horns 
screaming  the  hysterical  "pom-pom!  pom-pom!"  with 
more  vigor  than  usual.  As  was  our  custom,  we  turned 
the  lights  carefully  out  and  went  on  the  balcony  to 
watch  the  weird  scene  that  never  failed  to  fascinate, 
rockets  and  searchlights  and  the  firefly  effect  of  rising 
French  planes.  That  always  comforted  us.  We  had 
little  thought  that  an  escadrille  of  German  planes  could 
reach  Paris.  They  never  had  before.  The  raids  had 
been  only  an  occasional  plane  flying  very  high  and 
dropping  at  random  a  few  bombs  which  burst  in  dif- 
ferent quarters.  The  next  day  you  had  to  hunt  hard 
to  find  the  damage  they  did.  Remembering  our 
promise  to  Christine,  we  woke  her  up  and  took  her  out. 

296 


THE  GOTHAS  AND  BIG  BERTHA 

The  sounds  of  the  alarm  died  away.  Often  we  had 
waited  in  vain  for  the  fire  from  the  forts  around  Paris 
to  warn  us  that  the  raiders  had  actually  arrived  in  the 
vicinity  of  Paris.  Then  there  was  another  wait  until 
the  first  bomb  fell.  Christine  was  a  bit  disgusted  at 
being  waked  up  for  nothing.  During  the  long 
silence  she  asked  impatiently,  "What  is  this"?  The 
entre'acte?" 

But  Christine  was  not  disappointed.  Over  our  heads 
we  heard  distinctly  the  harsh  engine-sound  that  dis- 
tinguished the  new  German  Gotha  from  French  planes. 
We  heard  it  several  times.  When  the  bombs  began 
to  drop,  it  was  not  one  or  two,  but  dozens  of  explosions. 
We  did  not  think  of  going  inside.  The  thought  of 
danger  to  ourselves  did  not  enter  our  heads. 

Although  we  knew  the  raid  had  been  something 
different  from  any  we  had  experienced  up  to  this  time, 
there  was  little  in  the  papers  about  the  events  of  the 
night.  We  thought  that  we  must  have  been  mistaken 
in  the  number  of  bombs  that  had  fallen.  It  is  not 
always  easy  to  distinguish  between  the  explosions  of  a 
shell  from  the  tir  de  barrage  and  the  explosion  of  a 
bomb.  Before  we  got  through  the  first  month  of  1918 
we  had  the  opportunity  of  becoming  expert  in  this. 

We  happened  to  be  lunching  with  Robert  and  Edmee 
Chauvelot.  Robert  said,  "Did  you  go  down  to  the 
cellar  last  night1?" 

"No,  we  never  do." 

297 


PARIS  VISTAS 

"Why  not?"  cried  Robert. 

I  explained  our  air  raid  philosophy. 

"Nonsense!"  exclaimed  Madame  Alphonse  Daudet, 
Edmee's  mother,  "you  must  go  down  next  time.  It 
is  n't  fair  to  your  children.  Your  idea  sounds  spunky 
and  American — childish  you  understand.  When  we 
have  epidemics,  the  authorities  study  remedies.  The 
Huns  have  decided  to  concentrate  their  energies  on 
Paris  now.  You  must  have  read  the  warnings  in  the 
newspapers.  The  police  have  collected  statistics.  We 
know  now  that  most  of  the  people  killed  by  German 
planes  were  standing  at  windows  or  front  doors,  or  were 
on  the  streets,  or  remained  in  their  top-floor  apartments. 
What  you  have  been  telling  your  soldier  boys  in  the 
camps  is  all  wrong.  No  precaution  ought  to  be 
neglected.  It  is  a  question  of  commonsense,  not  fear." 

"I  know  how  to  convince  you,"  said  Robert.  After 
lunch  he  took  us  to  the  Avenue  de  la  Grande  Armee  not 
far  from  the  Arc  de  Triomphe. 

"There!"  He  pointed  to  a  house  whose  top  floors 
had  been  blown  away.  "That  might  just  as  well  have 
been  you." 

The  house  was  a  new  one  like  ours  and  as  solidly 
built  of  stone.  The  apartment  on  the  sixieme  etage 
was  pulverized,  the  one  below  it  was  smashed,  and  the 
fourth  floor  damaged  some.  But  the  third  floor  was 
intact.  This  convinced  us.  If  air  raids  were  now  to 
be  frequent,  had  we  the  right  to  risk  the  kiddies'?  We 

298 


THE  GOTHAS  AND  BIG  BERTHA 

could  take  the  chance  for  ourselves.     But  for  them*? 

All  Paris  reasoned  in  the  same  way.  The  Gothas 
began  to  come  every  night  during  the  full  moon  periods 
and  other  times  when  it  was  clear.  In  the  late  after- 
noon we  grew  accustomed  to  watch  the  sky  and  cal- 
culate the  chances  of  cloudy  weather.  If  the  stars 
came  out  we  were  sure  that  there  would  be  no  undis- 
turbed night's  rest.  The  Government  intensified  the 
batteries  of  A.D.C.  cannon  around  the  city.  Patrols 
of  aeroplanes  were  multiplied.  The  tir  de  barrage  be- 
came formidable.  None  could  boast  any  longer  of 
being  able  to  sleep  through  air  raids.  Sirens  were  put 
on  all  the  public  buildings  to  replace  the  alerte  of  the 
fire-trucks.  When  the  sirens  began  to  wail,  not  a  soul 
in  Paris  could  complain  of  not  being  warned.  Fre- 
quently nothing  happened  after  the  sirens,  because  the 
alerte  was  given  each  time  German  planes  were 
signalled  crossing  our  lines  in  the  direction  of  Paris. 
Then  we  would  simply  wait  for  the  berloque,  the  bugle 
signal  "all's  over,"  which  was  sounded  by  the  firemen 
riding  through  the  streets  on  their  hook  and  ladder 
trucks. 

When  the  Gothas  demonstrated  their  ability  to  come 
in  numbers,  as  the  Zeppelins  had  been  doing  in  London, 
the  municipality,  upon  orders  from  the  Ministere  de  la 
Guerre,  ordered  every  light  out  and  the  instant  stop- 
ping of  tramway  and  underground  services  the  moment 

299 


PARIS  VISTAS 

the  alerte  was  sounded.  Engineers  went  around  the 
city  examining  cellars  and  Metro  stations.  Houses 
with  solid  cellars  were  compelled  to  keep  their  front 
doors  open  until  the  number  of  persons  they  could  hold 
had  taken  refuge  inside.  In  front  of  the  house  placards 
were  posted  with  ABRI  in  large  letters  and  the  number 
of  persons  allotted  for  shelter  underneath.  The  under- 
ground railways  had  to  shut  all  stations  except  those 
deemed  safe.  If  you  were  on  the  street  or  in  an  under- 
ground train  or  tramway  when  the  alerte  sounded,  you 
had  the  choice  of  walking  home  or  of  taking  refuge  in 
the  nearest  abri.  At  first  the  theatres  and  moving- 
picture  houses  protested  against  being  closed  down. 
But  one  January  night  a  bomb  destroyed  completely  a 
house  a  hundred  yards  from  the  crowded  Folies- 
Bergere.  This  was  enough.  After  that,  if  the  alerte 
sounded  before  opening  time,  there  was  no  show.  If  it 
sounded  during  a  performance,  theatres  and  cinemas 
were  evacuated  immediately  by  the  police. 

One  can  readily  see  the  inconvenience  of  all  this. 
If  you  planned  to  go  out  for  dinner  or  to  a  show,  you 
risked  a  long  walk  home  or  being  caught  for  hours — 
and  then  the  walk!  For  it  was  practically  impos- 
sible to  get  into  the  underground  after  the  berloque 
sounded. 

On  account  of  the  children,  from  January  to  April, 
we  went  far  from  home  only  on  a  cloudy  or  rainy  night. 

300 


THE  GOTHAS  AND  BIG  BERTHA 

If  there  were  engagements  we  had  to  keep  on  a  clear 
night,  there  was  only  one  thing  to  do — 'bribe  a  chauffeur 
to  stand  by  you  with  his  taxi-cab  all  evening. 

As  the  alertes  were  often  false  alarms,  we  waited 
until  the  tir  de  barrage  began.  Then  with  servants 
carrying  children  wrapped  in  blankets,  we  had  to 
stumble  down  dark  stairs.  My  husband  was  often 
away.  Sometimes  I  had  to  go  on  lecture  trips.  But 
we  never  left  Paris  at  the  same  time.  Whenever  I  was 
out  of  town,  I  looked  on  clear  weather  as  a  calamity 
and  dreaded  the  full  moon.  The  next  morning  I  would 
eagerly  scan  the  paper  for  news  of  what  happened  in 
Paris.  It  was  no  fun. 

Cellars  of  modern  apartment  houses  may  be  solid, 
but  they  are  not  spacious.  Each  locataire  has  two 
caves,  one  for  storage  and  coal  and  one  for  wine.  The 
only  refuge  space  is  around  the  furnace  and  in  the  long 
corridors  that  lead  to  the  caves.  We  were  allotted 
space  for  three  hundred.  Such  a  crowd  would  gather 
from  the  streets!  I  could  not  take  my  children  there. 
At  first  we  went  to  the  concierge's  loge.  As  explosion 
succeeded  explosion,  I  telephoned  the  Herald  office  and 
learned  the  location  of  the  bomb  a  few  minutes  after  it 
fell.  This  was  a  way  of  knowing  whether  they  were 
in  our  quarter  or  across  the  river.  But  this  soon  ended. 
For  telephone  service  during  the  raid  was  interrupted, 
and  the  concierge's  loge  was  deemed  by  the  police  un- 
safe. Bombs  falling  in  the  street  or  court  were  wreck- 

301 


PARIS  VISTAS 

ing  ground  floors.  A  solidarity  manifested  itself 
among  the  locataires.  Those  on  the  first  two  or  three 
floors  took  in  the  tenants  from  the  upper  floors.  I  was 
lucky  in  having  the  use  of  a  first-floor  apartment  alone 
for  my  family.  The  locataires  of  this  apartment  would 
leave  the  door  open  for  me.  They  went  to  the  cellar ! 
Everything  is  relative  in  this  life. 

At  first,  the  children  objected  to  going  down  stairs. 
The  younger  ones  did  not  like  to  be  wakened  from 
their  sleep.  The  older  ones  wanted  to  see  the  raid 
from  the  balcony.  We  sympathized  with  them.  We 
were  missing  so  much !  After  a  while,  as  nothing  ever 
happened  to  our  house,  I  began  to  regret  having  started 
to  follow  the  advice  of  my  friends.  After  all,  was  the 
cellar  safe*?  It  was  fifty-fifty.  I  wonder  how  my 
children  will  feel  about  Germany  as  they  grow  up. 
They  were  old  enough  to  have  impressed  indelibly  upon 
their  minds  the  memory  of  these  months.  They  will 
never  forget  the  sirens,  the  sudden  waking  from  sleep, 
the  tir  de  barrage,  and  the  explosions  that  sometimes 
shook  our  house.  Mimi  asked  once,  "Do  the  Gothas 
make  that  siren  noise  with  their  heads  or  with  their 
tails?"  Fancy  the  image  in  the  child's  mind:  the  Ger- 
man birds  swooping  over  Paris  shrieking  a  song  of  hate 
and  dropping  bombs  that  meant  destruction  and  death. 
And  when  the  berloque  sounded  and  we  went  up  stairs, 
we  could  see  from  our  balcony  fires  here  and  there  over 
the  city.  For  the  Germans  used  incendiary  bombs. 

302 


THE  GOTHAS  AND  BIG  BERTHA 

But  we  were  to  have  worse  than  air  raids. 

The  other  day  I  put  on  the  victrola  a  selection  from 
"Die  Walkyrie."  Wotan  was  singing.  The  orchestra 
thundered  three  motifs.  The  spring  of  the  instrument 
ran  down  before  I  could  get  to  wind  it  up,  there  was  a 
rasping  shriek.  Mimi  started. 

"That 's  like  an  air  raid!"  cried  Lloyd. 

But  they  say  the  most  potent  way  "to  summon  up 
remembrance  of  things  past"  is  the  sense  of  smell. 
Burned  toast  means  to  me  Big  Bertha. 

One  Saturday  morning  I  was  reading  the  depressing 
news  of  the  rout  of  the  Fifth  British  army.  After 
nearly  four  years  of  immobility  in  the  trenches,  the 
Germans  had  once  more  started  the  march  on  Paris. 
The  two  older  children  were  out  walking  with  Alice, 
their  gouvernante.  I  was  at  home  with  the  babies.  It 
was  a  jewel  of  a  day,  picked  from  an  October  setting 
and  smiling  upon  Paris  in  March.  The  feel  of  spring 
was  in  the  air.  For  months  we  had  welcomed  bad 
weather  as  an  antidote  for  Gothas.  But  I  was  glad  the 
morning  was  so  fine.  At  least  there  was  nothing  to 
fear  until  evening.  At  the  end  of  winter  it  is  a  bless- 
ing to  have  the  windows  open  once  more.  Suddenly 
the  sirens  started.  We  went  out  on  the  balcony.  The 
streets  were  filling  with  people,  crowding  into  the  Vavin 
Metro  station  opposite  and  looking  for  the  houses  that 
were  abris.  Still  the  crowds  in  the  Boulevard  du 
Montparnasse  got  larger.  I  was  sorry  that  Easter 

303 


PARIS  VISTAS 

vacation  was  starting  so  early.  Were  the  children  in 
school,  they  would  be  in  the  cellar.  At  the  Ecole 
Alsacienne  the  children  were  drilled  for  air  raids  as 
American  school  children  are  for  fire.  Would  Alice 
take  the  children  to  her  own  home  or  come  back  here*? 
If  she  went  to  her  house,  could  she  get  there  in  time  to 
telephone  me  before  the  communications  were  cut  off? 
It  was  impossible  to  go  out  and  look  for  Christine  and 
Lloyd :  for  I  must  stay  with  the  others.  Often  the  best 
thing  is  to  sit  tight.  The  children  came  in. 

"It  is  n't  the  Gothas — it 's  balloons.  The  Germans 
have  sent  a  lot  of  them  over  us.  Everybody  says  so." 

In  the  unclouded  sky  there  was  no  sign  of  aeroplanes. 
Could  they  be  so  high  as  to  be  out  of  sight?  And  yet 
there  were  explosions  near  us  every  few  minutes. 
They  lasted  until  late  in  the  afternoon.  The  rumor  of 
a  big  gun  spread.  The  noon  newspapers  and  the  earlier 
afternoon  ones  spoke  of  a  long  distance  bombardment 
to  explain  the  explosions.  Shells  were  certainly  fall- 
ing. Bits  of  them,  different  from  bombs,  had  been 
picked  up.  But  the  opinion  of  interviewed  experts 
scouted  the  theory  of  a  gun  that  would  carry  over  a 
hundred  kilometers.  Was  a  new  German  advance  be- 
ing hidden  from  us?  Had  they  reached  the  gates  of 
the  city? 

That  night  we  had  our  air  raid  as  usual.  The  next 
morning  the  newspapers  told  us  that  we  could  now  ex- 
pect to  be  shelled  by  day  as  well  as  bombed  by  night. 

304 


Saint-Germain  1'Auxerrois 


THE  GOTHAS  AND  BIG  BERTHA 

It  was  established  that  the  Germans  had  discovered  a 
means  of  sending  shells  from  their  old  lines  all  the  way 
to  Paris. 

We  were  in  the  axis  of  Big  Bertha,  as  the  cannon  was 
immediately  dubbed.  This  was  a  new  and  more  severe 
test  for  nerves.  We  got  accustomed  to  it.  For  the 
trial,  the  strength.  The  kiddies  had  to  have  exercise 
and  you  yourself  could  not  be  home  every  minute  of 
the  time.  But  my  feeling  each  time  a  shell  exploded 
is  the  most  horrible  memory  of  the  war.  You  never 
knew  where  it  fell.  On  the  third  day  when  the  chil- 
dren came  home  from  the  Luxembourg,  they  told  me 
that  a  shell  from  Big  Bertha  had  torn  away  a  corner 
of  the  Grand  Bassin.  I  tried  to  steel  myself.  One 
can  become  a  fatalist  for  oneself.  But  it  is  not  easy 
to  be  a  fatalist  for  your  children. 

Then  we  had  a  lull.  We  were  assured  that  there 
was  only  one  Big  Bertha  or  at  the  most  two.  The  life 
of  the  cannon  was  a  hundred  shots.  Counting  those 
that  fell  in  the  suburbs,  the  attempt  to  intimidate  Paris 
was  over. 

We  were  thankful  now  that  we  had  only  the  air 
raids. 

I  woke  up  on  Thursday  morning,  thinking  to  give 
the  children  a  treat.  I  built  a  wood  fire,  and  started  to 
make  some  toast.  As  I  sat  on  the  floor,  cutting  pieces 
of  bread,  I  told  myself  that  it  would  not  help  to  worry. 
Perhaps  it  was  true  that  the  Germans  had  sprung  a  trick 

305 


PARIS  VISTAS 

they  could  not  repeat.  At  any  rate,  the  news  from  the 
front  was  good.  The  British  had  made  a  magnificent 
recovery.  The  French  were  helping  them  stop  the 
hole.  General  Pershing  was  throwing  all  the  Ameri- 
cans in  France  into  the  breach  north  of  Paris.  There 
was  something  to  be  thankful  for.  Even  if  Big  Bertha 
started  up  again,  we  were  as  safe  from  shells  in  our  own 
home  as  anywhere  else.  I  said  to  myself,  "I  am  going 
to  forget  Big  Bertha  and  put  my  mind  on  the  children's 
treat — hot  buttered  toast  for  breakfast."  There  were 
enough  embers  now  to  make  the  toast.  I  speared  a 
piece  of  bread  with  the  kitchen  fork  and  held  it  over 
the  fire. 

"Bing!" 

The  toast  dropped  from  my  fork  and  was  burned 
before  I  could  pick  it  out. 

Mimi,  who  was  sleeping  in  the  bed  close  by,  woke  up. 

"Hello,  Mama,"  she  said  cheerfully.  "Dat  's  Big 
Bertha  again.  I  did  hear  her." 


306 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE    BIRD    CHARMER    OF    THE    TUILERIES 

THE  Paris  subway  system  is  the  best  in  the  world. 
We  make  this  boast  without  fear  of  contradic- 
tion. In  London  the  various  lines  do  not  connect,  and 
require  a  life  study  to  arrive  at  the  quickest  combina- 
tion. Even  then,  old  Londoners  are  in  doubt.  They 
say  to  you,  "Piccadilly  Circus?  Ah  let  me  see — " 
Then  your  guide  contradicts  himself  two  or  three  times 
before  giving  you  directions  of  which  he  is  reasonably 
sure.  In  New  York,  you  have  to  be  certain  you  are  on 
the  uptown  or  downtown  side,  and  that  you  have  not 
mistaken  the  Broadway  line,  where  you  drop  the  money 
in  the  box,  for  the  Seventh  Avenue  line,  where  you  buy 
tickets.  Experience  with  the  Forty-second  Street  shut- 
tle teaches  you  that  it  is  quicker  to  walk  than  to  ride: 
you  have  to  walk  most  of  the  way  anyhow.  New 
York  subways  are  filthy  and  stuffy.  In  Boston  you 
have  a  bewildering  variety  of  trolley-cars,  stopping  at 
different  parts  of  the  platform  and  going  every  which 
way. 

But  Paris  underground  is  clean,  well-ventilated,  or- 
derly.    You  can  go  from  any  part  of  the  city  to  any 

307 


PARIS  VISTAS 

other  part  quickly  and  without  confusion.  The  resi- 
dent knows  his  way  instinctively.  The  stranger  has 
only  to  follow  the  abundant  and  clearly-marked  signs. 
In  every  station  the  signs  bear  the  name  of  every  other 
station,  and  if  you  are  in  doubt,  there  is  a  map  before 
you.  On  the  doors  of  cars  the  stations  are  marked, 
with  junction-stops  in  red,  and  all  the  stations  of  the 
line  you  are  taking  are  indicated  on  a  map  which  you 
cannot  fail  to  see. 

The  subway  system  of  Paris  is  superb  because  it  has 
to  compete  with  excellent  surface  transportation.  It 
has  also  to  compete  with  the  beauty  of  Paris.  Unless 
you  are  in  a  hurry  or  it  is  a  very  rainy  day,  riding  un- 
derground is  folly.  One  never  tires  of  going  through 
the  streets  of  Paris.  The  joy  is  constant.  I  am  proud 
of  the  "Metro"  and  "Nord-Sud,"  as  the  two  subway 
systems  are  called.  But  I  use  them  as  little  as  possible. 
An  open  fiacre  is  a  temptation  never  to  be  resisted. 
And,  until  the  last  year  of  the  war,  it  was  a  temptation 
thrust  under  your  nose.  Best  of  all,  I  love  to  walk. 
Our  way  to  the  Rive  Droite  is  down  the  Boulevard 
Raspail.  At  the  foot  of  the  boulevard,  you  have  three 
choices.  You  can  go  straight  ahead  through  the 
Rue  du  Bac  and  over  the  Pont  Royal,  by  the 
Boulevard  Saint-Germain  and  across  the  Pont  de 
Solferino,  or  to  the  end  of  the  Boulevard  Saint- 
Germain  and  across  the  Pont  de  la  Concorde. 
Each  route  is  equally  inspiring.  By  the  Pont  Solferino 

308 


THE  BIRD  CHARMER  OF  THE  TUILERIES 

you  have  before  you  a  perfect  vista  of  the  Vendome 
Column  and  Sacre-Coeur  in  the  background.  By  the 
Pont  de  la  Concorde  you  have  the  Obelisque  and  the 
Madeleine  in  the  background.  But  I  used  to  prefer  the 
Rue  du  Bac  and  the  Pont  Royal  because  of  Monsieur 
Pol.  Alas  that  I  have  to  say  "used  to"  ! 

After  crossing  the  Seine  by  the  Pont  Royal,  you  en- 
ter the  Tuileries  Garden  at  the  end  of  the  Louvre.  On 
the  left-hand  side,  before  you  reached  the  Rue  de 
Rivoli,  ever  since  I  can  remember  a  little  group  was 
gathered  around  a  man  feeding  birds.  I  had  to  be  in 
a  great  hurry  on  the  day  I  did  not  join  that  group. 

There  is  an  old  saying  that  every  man  drifts  into  his 
means  of  livelihood.  That  is  the  reason  so  few  people 
are  doing  what  they  planned  to  do,  and  why  there  are 
so  many  queer  ways  of  earning  one's  living.  Certainly 
the  first  time  Monsieur  Pol  threw  bread  crumbs  to 
the  sparrows  in  Tuileries  he  did  not  think  of  doing  it 
for  a  living.  Nor  did  he  dream  that  he  would  become 
as  familiar  a  Paris  landmark  as  Paul  Deroulede  in 
marble  and  Jeanne  d'Arc  in  gilt  near  by.  A  generation 
of  Parisians  may  have  forgotten  the  features  of  former 
presidents  of  the  Republic.  But  who  would  not  recog- 
nize Monsieur  Pol*?  In  fact,  I  have  seen  Emile  Lou- 
bet  standing  unrecognized  in  the  crowd  around  the  bird 
charmer. 

One  day  a  one-legged  soldier  limped  his  way  through 
the  crowd  to  a  good  place.  In  the  lines  of  his  face 

309 


PARIS  VISTAS 

you  could  read  suffering,  but  the  expression  was  of  a 
happy  child  absorbed  in  the  wonder  of  the  moment. 
On  the  sand  around  the  old  man's  chair  a  hundred  spar- 
rows faced  his  way,  heads  uplifted. 

"Get  out  of  this,  you  rascals!  I  have  had  enough 
of  you,"  cried  Monsieur  Pol,  stamping  his  foot  and 
shaking  a  fist  at  his  battalion.  Do  you  think  they 
budged*?  The  bird  charmer  shook  his  head,  and  re- 
marked with  a  gentle  sigh,  turning  to  the  crowd,  "You 
see,  they  have  known  me  a  good  while.  Mind  how  you 
behave,"  he  shouted,  addressing  the  birds  again,  "here  is 
a  soldier  looking  at  you.  Think  how  he  will  laugh  if 
you  do  not  stand  up  straight.  Look  how  well  he  's 
standing  himself — with  one  leg  gone." 

The  birds  heard  a  speech  praising  their  defender, 
which  turned  into  a  glorification  of  our  poilus  in  gen- 
eral. How  those  birds  had  to  listen  to  lessons  in  poli- 
tics, shrewd  comments  on  the  news  of  the  day,  the  lat- 
est Cabinet  crisis,  talked-about  play,  scandal  in  high 
life!  Since  the  war  it  has  been  the  Germans  in  Bel- 
gium, the  Turks  in  Armenia,  Kerensky  and  the  Bolshe- 
vists, and  the  last  three  o'clock  communique.  The 
birds  gave  their  attention  to  the  end.  They  seemed  to 
know  when  the  speech  was  done,  when  the  lesson  of 
faith  in  France  and  optimism  had  been  driven  home. 
They  began  to  fly  about  the  charmer,  billing  around  his 
neck  and  perching  on  his  wide-brimmed  hat  in  search  of 
bread-crumbs. 

310 


THE  BIRD  CHARMER  OF  THE  TUILERIES 

Feeding  the  sparrows  was  "un  metier  comme  un  au- 
tre"  He  had  names  for  all  his  pets.  With  "the  Eng- 
lishman" he  talked  about  Edward  the  Seventh,  Sir 
Thomas  Barclay  and  the  Entente  Cordiale,  and  pressed 
him  on  the  subject  of  the  tunnel  under  the  Channel. 
He  complimented  "the  Englishman"  on  the  bravery  of 
the  Tommies  and  told  him  what  the  French  thought  of 
Sir  Douglas  Haig.  "The  Deputy"  received  frank  com- 
ments on  the  doings  at  the  Palais  Bourbon.  "The 
Drunk"  was  twitted  for  having  to  go  without  absinthe, 
scolded  for  his  excesses,  and  at  the  end  of  the  afternoon 
invited  to  accompany  Monsieur  Pol  for  a  drink,  the 
price  of  which  invariably  came  from  someone  in  the 
crowd.  Monsieur  Pol  and  his  sparrows  would  have 
earned  a  fortune  at  any  vaudeville  house.  He  was  as 
witty  as  a  cowboy  rope-juggler  I  saw  once  in  New 
York,  and  his  lectures  to  the  birds,  if  taken  down  in 
shorthand,  would  have  made  a  valuable  contemporary 
commentary  on  Paris  during  the  Third  Republic. 
Monsieur  Pol  depended  upon  occasional  gifts  and  the 
sale  of  postcards. 

During  the  war  he  grew  gradually  more  feeble,  but 
could  not  be  persuaded  to  accept  the  care  of  loving 
hands  stretched  out  to  him  on  all  sides  in  spite  of  the 
preoccupation  of  the  struggle.  When  the  bread  restric- 
tions came  in,  he  never  lacked  a  sufficient  supply  for 
his  little  friends.  I  have  seen  people  give  him  strips 
of  their  own  bread  tickets.  Monsieur  Pol  kept  coming 


PARIS  VISTAS 

to  the  Tuileries  until  he  died  in  action  as  truly  as  any 
soldier  at  the  front.  His  best  epitaph  is  a  little  verse 
on  the  postcards  he  sold : 

"Aupres  de  ces  petits,  je  suis  tou jours  heureux. 
Car  je  vois  I'amitie  petiller  dans  leurs  yeux, 
Et  j'eprouve  aussitot,  avec  un  charme  extreme, 
Le  plus  doux  des  bonheurs :  etre  aimc  quand  on  aime."  * 


"Among  these  little  ones  I  am  always  happy. 
In  their  innocent  eyes  glows  friendship, 
And  with  swelling  heart  I  know  the  charm 
Of  loving  and  of  being  loved." 


312 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE    gUATORZE    OF    TESTING 

BIG  BERTHA,  or  rather  her  successors,  kept  up  a 
sporadic  bombardment  of  Paris  in  April  and 
May.  A  few  shells  fell  again  in  June.  But  the  effect 
of  the  bombardment,  materially  and  morally,  was  noth- 
ing like  that  of  the  original  Big  Bertha.  The  culmina- 
tion of  horror  and  indignation  was  reached  on  Good 
Friday  afternoon,  when  a  hundred  people  were  killed 
in  the  church  of  Saint-Gervais.  After  that  the  Ger- 
mans made  no  other  big  killing.  They  came  to  realize 
that  Big  Bertha  could  not  intimidate  or  demoralize 
Paris.  Where  the  shells  fell,  however,  we  shall  never 
forget. 

I  used  to  listen  with  awe  (and  a  bit  of  envy)  to  the 
stories  of  people  who  passed  through  the  siege  of  1870. 
I  remember  well  when  I  was  a  child  being  told  by  my 
father's  friends,  as  we  drove  in  the  city,  "A  shell  burst 
here  in  1870  and  tore  the  front  out  of  a  shop :  I  was  sit- 
ting at  a  cafe  near  by" ;  or,  "On  that  spot  the  Versailles 
troops  stormed  a  barricade  and  lined  its  defenders 
against  a  wall — there  was  no  quarter."  Now  I  have 
my  stories  to  tell!  There  is  hardly  a  street  between 
the  Boulevard  Montparnasse  and  the  Seine  that  is  not 

313 


PARIS  VISTAS 

associated  in  my  mind  with  an  aeroplane  bomb  or  a  Big 
Bertha  shell.  The  compensation  for  having  lived 
through  these  days  will  be  the  privilege  of  telling  Amer- 
icans who  come  to  see  us  "all  about  it."  As  the  years 
go  by,  I  have  no  doubt  that  legends  will  form  them- 
selves in  my  mind  and  that  I  shall  do  my  full  share  of 
innocent  and  unintentional  lying.  You  want  to  im- 
press your  listener :  so  you  must  make  things  graphic. 

But  I  shall  never  be  eloquent  enough  to  enhance 
upon  or  exaggerate  the  nervous  tension  through  which 
we  passed  during  the  spring  and  early  summer  of  1918. 
From  the  moment  we  learned  the  news  of  the  collapse  of 
the  Fifth  British  Army,  which  brought  the  Germans  to 
Montdidier,  until  the  tide  of  battle  was  definitely 
turned,  we  never  had  an  easy  moment.  The  strain 
was  worse  than  in  1914.  For  it  lasted  months  instead 
of  weeks,  and  reverses  after  four  years  of  fighting,  with 
all  the  world  against  Germany,  were  more  difficult  to 
understand  and  to  stand.  The  British  were  just  re- 
covering themselves  when  the  Germans  fell  on  the 
French,  captured  the  entire  Craonne  plateau  for  which 
we  had  been  struggling  for  three  years,  reoccupied  Sois- 
sons,  and  started  to  advance  once  more  from  the  Aisne 
to  the  Marne. 

It  was  not  easy  to  be  an  optimist.  We  had  faith  in 
the  holding  ability  of  the  French  and  British  armies; 
we  believed  that  the  Germans  were  shooting  their  last 
bolt;  and  we  knew  that  the  Americans  were  arriving 

3H 


THE  QUATORZE  OF  TESTING 

in  large  numbers.  But  we  had  been  fooled  so  often 
about  internal  conditions  in  Germany!  And  Russia 
and  the  submarine  warfare  were  factors  concerning 
which  we  had  no  exact  data.  The  people  who  recreate 
the  past  with  the  advantage  of  hindsight  will  tell  that 
they  never  worried  a  minute.  They  knew  things  were 
coming  out  all  right!  To  listen  to  them  one  would 
think  that  they  expected  all  along  to  happen  just  what 
did  happen  in  the  way  it  did  happen.  When  I  hear 
this  kind  of  talk  now  I  know  that  it  was  either  a  case  of 

"Where  ignorance  is  bliss 
'Tis  folly  to  be  wise," 

or  hopeless  bumptiousness.  How  strange  it  is  that 
many  of  those  who  tell  you  now  that  the  Germans 
never  had  a  chance  ran  away  from  Paris  in  1914  and 
again  in  1918. 

Parisians  passed  no  fortnight  in  which  there  was 
more  anxiety  and  uncertainty  to  their  beloved  city  than 
the  first  two  weeks  of  July.  The  Germans  were  wid- 
ening their  pocket.  They  occupied  the  right  bank  of 
the  Marne  from  Chateau-Thierry  to  Dormans.  They 
crossed  the  Marne.  It  was  too  late  for  Germany  to 
hope  to  win  the  war.  But  would  they  get  to  Paris'? 

On  July  Fourth  I  was  in  reconquered  Alsace  and 
my  husband  was  speaking  at  Tours.  He  telegraphed 
me  to  join  him  at  Boulogne-Sur-Mer  on  July  seventh. 
It  took  me  three  days  to  go  in  slow  trains,  with  an  occa- 

315 


PARIS  VISTAS 

sional  lift  by  motor,  the  entire  length  of  the  front.  I 
saw  everywhere  reserves  of  troops  and  endless  lines  of 
motor-trucks  and  trains  with  cannon  and  ammunition. 
The  American  uniform  was  ubiquitous.  All  this  gave 
me  a  hope  and  confidence  I  had  not  felt  in  Paris,  where 
I  knew  that  the  Government  was  making  more  elabo- 
rate preparations  than  in  1914  to  evacuate  the  city. 
Herbert  and  I  returned  to  Paris  from  Etaples  on  July 
ninth.  The  direct  route  by  Abbeville  and  Amiens  was 
under  the  German  cannon,  so  we  had  to  make  a  wide 
detour  by  Treport  and  Beauvais.  We  both  had  a  rag- 
ing fever  and  it  was  all  we  could  do  to  get  home  from 
the  Gare  de  Nord. 

Doctor  Charon  came  early  in  the  morning  and  told  us 
that  we  were  down  with  the  grippe  espagnole,  the 
plague  that  was  sweeping  France  and  that  had  much 
to  do  with  the  general  depression.  Many  a  soldier  who 
had  gone  through  four  years  of  battle  unscathed  suc- 
cumbed to  this  mysterious  disease.  It  hit  one  suddenly 
and  the  end  came  quickly.  On  the  other  hand,  if  the 
first  forty-eight  hours  passed  without  complications,  re- 
covery was  as  rapid.  Despite  the  protests  of  Doctor 
Charon,  Herbert  got  out  of  bed  on  the  morning  of  the 
thirteenth  to  go  to  Lyons  to  the  inauguration  of  the 
Pont  President- Wilson.  I  was  up  to  celebrate  the 
Quatorze.  After  it  was  over,  I  was  glad  of  the  illness 
that  came  to  keep  me  in  Paris  for  this  day  when  we 
whistled  to  keep  up  our  courage.  Had  the  Spanish 

316 


THE  QUATORZE  OF  TESTING 

grip  not  interfered,  I  should  have  returned  to  my  chil- 
dren in  the  Little  Gray  Home  near  Saint-Nazaire. 

The  military  operations  in  July,  1918,  were  not  crit- 
ical from  the  standpoint  of  the  safety  of  France  and 
the  success  of  the  Allied  cause.  The  size  of  the  army 
America  was  sending  to  France  put  the  Germans  in 
such  a  hopeless  inferiority  of  numbers  that  as  soon  as 
the  table  of  the  landing  of  the  first  million  was  pub- 
lished we  knew  that  the  Germans  were  doomed  if  the 
fighting  continued.  But  we  had  a  growing  number  of 
strikes  and  a  wide-spread  defeatist  campaign  in  the  rear 
to  contend  with.  If  Paris  were  taken,  what  would  be 
the  effect  on  French  public  opinion?  This  was  the 
stake  the  Germans  were  fighting  for,  and  they  knew  it 
was  their  only  hope  of  salvation. 

Never  have  I  loved  Paris  more  than  on  the  Ouatorze 
of  testing.  Music  and  dancing  were  lacking,  of  course : 
for  since  1914  we  had  not  danced  in  public  out  of 
respect  to  the  dead  and  music  had  been  barred  in  cafes. 
Military  bands  had  other  places  to  play  than  in  Paris. 
But  happen  what  might,  Parisians  were  determined  to 
celebrate  the  fete  just  as  if  the  Germans  had  not  crossed 
the  Marne.  I  went  out  for  the  day  with  friends.  We 
smiled  and  laughed  and  tried  to  have  a  good  time. 
The  relaxation  helped  all  to  bear  the  burden.  Within 
limits  hedonism  has  its  merits.  "Eat,  drink  and  be 
merry,  for  to-morrow  we  die"  is  the  philosophy  that 
wins  out  when  a  crisis  is  being  faced. 

317 


PARIS  VISTAS 

I  went  to  the  review  in  the  morning,  and  made  a 
round  of  the  streets  and  the  Champs-Elysees  Quarter 
that  had  been  rebaptized  in  honor  of  our  Allies.  The 
Paris  Municipal  Council  cannot  be  accused  of  lacking 
optimism  in  regard  to  persons  as  well  as  events.  Be- 
lief in  victory  and  in  the  permanent  esteem  for  those 
who  were  bringing  it  to  pass  led  to  changes  of  names 
that  may  not  in  retrospect  have  popular  approval.  The 
Avenue  du  Trocadero  has  become  the  Avenue  du  Presi- 
dent-Wilson; the  Avenue  d'Antin,  the  Avenue  Victor- 
Emanuel  III;  the  Avenue  de  1'Alma,  the  Avenue 
Georges  V;  the  Quai  Debilly,  the  Quai  de  Tokio;  part 
of  the  Rue  Pierre-Charron,  the  Rue  Pierre  I  de  Serbie; 
and  the  Place  de  1'Alma,  the  Place  des  Allies. 

When  Herbert  returned  from  the  Quatorze  at  Lyons, 
we  celebrated  the  Franco-American  victory  of  the 
Marne  with  a  dinner  at  Pare  Montsouris.  Whoever 
has  been  to  the  Pavilion  du  Lac  becomes  a  regular 
client.  We  discovered  this  unpretentious  little  res- 
taurant many  years  ago  when  we  were  exploring  with 
Christine  and  the  baby-carriage.  Ever  since  Xavier 
has  been  our  friend.  Xavier  does  not  need  to  be  on 
the  Grands  Boulevards.  He  prepares  the  choicest 
dishes  with  utmost  confidence  that  his  friends  will 
bring  their  friends  to  Montsouris.  The  Pavilion  du  Lac 
is  nearly  a  mile  from  the  nearest  Metro  station  and  no 
taxicabs  are  to  be  found  out  there  by  the  fortifications. 
But  difficulty  of  transportation  is  more  than  compen- 

318 


THE  QUATORZE  OF  TESTING 

sated  for  by  the  restfulness  of  the  Pavilion  du  Lac,  its 
cuisine — and  Xavier,  with  his  good  humor  and  witti- 
cisms, waiting  on  the  table.  You  eat  on  the  terras se 
facing  the  park,  with  its  waterfall  and  lake,  and  you 
feel  that  it  is  all  yours — park  and  restaurant.  From 
patron  to  chef,  everybody  calls  you  by  name,  and  most 
of  the  people  at  the  tables  are  your  friends.  In  the 
salon  is  a  piano.  You  dance  to  your  heart's  content. 
Xavier  dances  with  you. 

When  I  try  to  write  of  the  Pavilion  du  Lac,  memo- 
ries crowd  in  on  me  thick  and  fast.  I  could  have  put 
this  restaurant  in  almost  any  chapter  of  my  Paris 
vistas. 

But  what  place  could  a  dinner  at  Montsouris  enter 
more  appropriately  than  on  the  night  of  July  18,  1918? 
We  were  celebrating  better  than  we  knew.  The  after- 
noon communique  brought  with  it  the  certainty  that  the 
miracle  of  1914  had  been  repeated  and  that  Paris  was 
saved  again.  Did  we  realize  that  the  day's  fighting 
was  the  turning  point  of  the  war"?  I  think  not.  But 
we  acted  as  if  we  did. 

Around  our  table  were  gathered  the  American  Gen- 
eral commanding  the  troops  in  Paris,  my  husband's 
chief  on  the  Committee  of  Public  Information,  a 
French  editor,  colleagues  of  the  American  and  British 
press,  and  one  of  our  dearest  French  friends,  whose 
work  for  his  country  in  the  hour  of  trial  was  bearing 
splendid  fruit.  Xavier  was  at  his  best.  Had  I  not 

319 


PARIS  VISTAS 

recently  been  in  his  beloved  Alsace  from  which  he  had 
been  an  exile  since  childhood?  From  hors  d'aeuvres 
to  liqueurs,  there  was  an  uninterrupted  flow  of  good 
cheer.  The  strain  of  years  was  passing  away. 

The  climax  came  when  Jim  Kerney  picked  up  his 
cordial  glass,  twirled  it  with  his  thumb,  looked  at  it 
regretfully,  and  sighed, 

"The  fellow  who  blew  this  glass  was  certainly  short 
of  breath." 


320 


Old  Paris  is  disappearing 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE    LIBERATION    OF    LILLE 

FROM  the  Boulevard  des  Capucines  to  the  Avenue 
de  1'Opera  there  is  a  convenient  short-cut  through 
the  Rue  Daunou.  Newspaper  men  and  other  Ameri- 
cans do  not  always  use  the  Rue  Daunou  for  the  short- 
cut. It  is  better  known  as  the  way  to  the  Chatham 
bar.  I  ought  to  know  nothing  about  the  Chatham  bar. 
My  acquaintance  with  that  corner  should  be  limited  to 
the  Restaurant  Volney  and  ladies'  days  at  my  hus- 
band's club  opposite.  But  I  do  know  the  Chatham 
bar  and  for  a  perfectly  respectable  reason.  It  is  where 
my  old  uncle  used  to  be  found  when  the  clerk  at  his 
hotel  said  that  he  was  not  in.  The  uncle  makes  me 
think  of  a  friend  of  his  and  a  table  with  a  little  brass 
disk  in  the  center  of  it  to  commemorate  assiduous  at- 
tendance through  a  long  period  of  years  in  the  Chatham 
bar.  And  the  uncle's  friend  makes  me  think  of  the  lib- 
eration of  Lille.  Association  of  ideas  is  a  strange 
thing. 

Herbert  and  I  sat  one  evening  in  the  autumn  of  1915 
before  a  big  map  with  my  uncle's  friend.     His  fingers 

321 


PARIS  VISTAS 

lay  upon  the  Flanders  portion  of  what  we  had  come  to 
call  "the  front."  Bubbling  over  with  excitement,  he 
exclaimed, 

"  They  have  broken  through  here,  I  tell  you,  day  be- 
fore yesterday.  I  always  knew  that  when  Kitchener's 
army  was  ready  the  trick  would  be  turned.  Of  course 
the  censorship  is  holding  up  the  news,  but  everybody 
knows  it.  A  sharp  bombardment  that  overwhelmed 
the  Boches,  and  then  the  break  through.  The  Boches 
were  routed.  Talk  about  not  being  able  to  storm 
trenches!  The  cavalry  has  passed  Lille.  At  this 
moment  Lille  is  liberated.  The  British  must  be 
there  in  force." 

"But,"  objected  my  husband,  "this  is  too  good  to  be 
true.  They  could  not  hold  back  news  like  that,  you 
know.  If  the  British  are  in  Lille,  the  war  is  over." 

"Of  course  it  is  over,"  insisted  my  uncle's  friend. 
"We  shall  have  peace  by  Christmas." 

Mr. — well  I  won't  tell  you  his  name — let  us  say 
Mr.  Smith,  was  hardly  to  blame  for  taking  the  wish  for 
the  fact.  The  rumor  of  a  big  break  through  the  Flan- 
ders front  was  everywhere  in  Paris.  Fourteen  months 
of  war  had  been  enough.  The  French  had  waited  a 
year  for  the  British  to  form  an  army.  Why  should  n't 
it  be  true  that  now  the  end  had  come? 

Alas !  we  were  to  wait  three  years  more  before  the 
lines  in  Flanders  were  crossed;  we  were  to  have  many 
costly  disappointments  like  that  of  Neuve-Chapelle. 

322 


THE  LIBERATION  OF  LILLE 

But  when  the  moment  finally  did  come,  the  liberation 
of  Lille  was  to  mean  the  beginning  of  the  end. 

In  October,  1919,  when  I  came  back  to  Paris  from 
the  Little  Gray  Home,  I  returned  to  a  city  where  there 
was  a  feeling  of  victory  in  the  air.  The  most  conserva- 
tive had  lost  their  habitual  pessimism.  The  most  re- 
signed, who  had  come  to  accept  the  war  as  a  fatality 
that  would  never  end  as  long  as  there  were  men  to  fight, 
began  to  revise  their  opinions.  The  most  suspicious, 
who  wagged  their  heads  over  communiques  no  matter 
what  the  authorities  said,  felt  that  after  all  we  were 
making  "some  progress."  Each  day  the  list  of  lib- 
erated communes  grew  longer.  But  until  some  big  city 
was  abandoned,  Parisians  were  afraid  of  having  to  pay 
too  big  a  price  to  break  down  the  Boche  resistance. 
After  all,  they  had  proved  themselves  stubborn  fighters. 
They  might  elect  to  make  a  long  "last  ditch"  combat 
on  lines  of  which  we  did  not  know  the  existence.  But 
if  they  abandoned  Lille,  that  would  mean  the  intention 
of  falling  back  to  the  Meuse.  Genuine  optimism  is  as 
hard  to  instil  as  it  is  to  dispel.  In  retrospect,  many 
writers  are  now  asserting  that  Parisians  knew  the 
Bodies  were  beaten  after  the  failure  of  their  last  July 
offensive  from  the  Vesle  to  the  Marne.  But  this  is  not 
true.  Relief  over  the  failure  to  reach  Paris  did  not 
mean  certainty  of  the  imminent  collapse  of  Ludendorf 's 
war  machine. 

When  summertime  was  over,   and  darkness  came 

323 


PARIS  VISTAS 

suddenly  from  one  day  to  the  next,  Herbert  and  I  re- 
sumed our  walks  at  nightfall.  During  the  war  we  had 
lost  our  interest  in  buildings  as  memorials  of  the  past. 
Contemporary  history  had  crowded  out  ante-bellum  as- 
sociations. The  Eiffel  Tower  was  not  a  gigantic  mon- 
strosity, a  relic  of  the  Exposition.  It  was  a  wireless- 
telegraphy  station,  the  ear,  the  eye,  the  voice  of  Paris. 
Tramping  by  the  Champs  de  Mars,  we  saw  the  senti- 
nels in  their  faded  blue  coats  of  the  fifth  year  and  felt 
sorry  for  the  men  up  there  always  listening  in  the  piti- 
less cold.  Crossing  the  Pont  Alexandre  III,  we  forgot 
the  splendor  of  the  Czars  and  thought  of  Nicholas  in 
the  hands  of  the  Bolsheviki.  The  Grand  Palais  no 
longer  recalled  brilliant  Salons.  We  thought  of  the 
blind  in  the  hospital  there  and  of  the  re-education  of 
mutilated  poilus.  The  picture  inside  was  a  one-armed 
soldier  learning  to  run  a  typewriter,  and  a  man  with 
both  legs  amputated  sitting  on  a  low  bench,  the  light 
of  renewed  hope  in  his  eyes :  for  he  had  found  out  that 
he  could  still  do  a  man's  work  in  the  world  by  becom- 
ing a  cobbler.  The  newspaper  building,  whose  cellar 
windows  used  to  fascinate  us,  was  the  place  where  we 
waited  for  the  posting  of  the  communique.  The  In- 
valides  was  no  longer  just  Napoleon's  tomb.  It  was 
the  place  where  you  went  to  see  your  friends  deco- 
rated and  where  you  strolled  about  the  central  court 
to  show  your  children  aeroplanes  and  cannon  captured 
from  the  Germans.  And  you  were  saddened  by  the 

324 


THE  LIBERATION  OF  LILLE 

thought  that  when  the  last  veterans  of  the  Crimea  and 
Soixante-Dix  and  colonial  wars  disappeared,  there 
would  be  thousands  of  others  to  take  the  vacant  places. 

October  is  chestnut  month.  From  some  mysterious 
source  the  venders  drew  their  supply  of  charcoal  when 
we  could  not  get  it.  But  we  were  glad  of  their  luck. 
Autumn  walks  would  not  be  complete  without  the  bag 
of  roasted  chestnuts  which  I  could  fish  out  of  Herbert's 
overcoat  pocket. 

We  were  going  down  the  Rue  de  Rennes  one  night 
and  stopped  to  get  our  chestnuts  from  the  man  at  the 
corner  of  the  Rue  Sainte-Placide.  Herbert  was  fum- 
bling for  coppers.  A  boy  thrust  a  newspaper  under  his 
nose. 

"The  Liberation  of  Lille!"  he  cried. 

We  hailed  a  taxi  and  made  for  the  Chatham  bar. 
Everything  comes  to  him  who  waits.  Uncle  Alex's 
friend  was  waiting. 


325 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

ARMISTICE    NIGHT 

ON  the  eleventh  day  of  the  eleventh  month  at  the 
eleventh  hour,  Paris  heard  the  news.  The  big 
guns  of  Mont  Valerian  and  the  forts  of  Ivry  roared. 
The  anti-aircraft  cannon  of  the  Buttes-Chaumont,  Issy- 
les-Moulineaux,  the  Eiffel  Tower,  the  Arc  de  Triomphe 
and  the  Place  de  la  Bastille  took  up  the  message.  The 
submarine  moored  by  the  Pont  de  la  Concorde  spoke 
for  the  navy.  And  then  the  church  bells  began  to 
ring.  We  had  heard  the  tocsin  sounded  by  those  same 
bells  at  four  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  August  l,  1914. 
France  to  arms!  We  had  heard  those  same  cannon 
during  more  than  four  years  announcing  the  arrival  of 
Tauben  and  Zeppelins  and  Gothas  over  Paris.  But 
Paris  kept  the  faith  and  never  doubted  that  this  day 
would  come.  The  armistice  was  signed.  The  war 
was  over.  The  victory  was  ours. 

In  the  Rue  Campagne-Premiere  artists'  studios  are  in 
the  buildings  with  workingmen's  lodgings.  House 
painter  and  canvas  painter  work  side  by  side;  writer 
and  printer  and  book-binder,  sculptor,  cobbler,  and  mat- 
tress maker  live  in  the  same  court.  Our  little  commu- 
nity could  exist  by  itself,  for  we  have  within  a  few 

326 


ARMISTICE  NIGHT 

hundred  feet  all  that  we  need,  tailor  and  laundress, 
baker  and  butcher,  restaurant  and  milk  woman,  the  sta- 
tioner who  sells  newspapers  and  notions,  and  the  hard- 
ware shop  where  artists'  materials  can  be  had.  During 
these  years  of  danger  and  discouragement  and  depres- 
sion we  have  exchanged  hopes  and  fears  as  we  have 
bought  and  sold  and  worked.  We  have  welcomed  the 
permit sioniares,  we  have  shared  in  the  bereavements  of 
almost  every  family,  and  we  have  greeted  the  birth  of 
each  baby  as  if  it  were  our  own.  I  was  in  my  studio 
when  the  message  of  victory  arrived.  Windows  in  the 
large  court  opened  instantly,  and  then  we  hurried  down 
the  staircase  to  pour  forth,  hand  in  hand,  arm  in  arm, 
into  the  street.  We  kissed  each  other.  Flags  ap- 
peared in  every  window  and  on  every  vehicle. 

The  Boulevard  du  Montparnasse  was  ablaze  with 
flags  and  bunting,  and  processions  were  forming. 
Hands  reached  out  to  force  me  into  line.  I  managed  to 
break  away  when  I  got  to  the  door  of  my  home  for 
the  crowd  paused  to  salute  the  huge  American  flag. 
Herbert,  who  had  reached  the  apartment  first,  was 
hanging  from  our  balcony.  My  four  children  were  in 
the  hall  when  the  elevator  stopped.  School  had  been 
dismissed.  They  danced  around  me.  Mimi  the  five- 
year-old  cried:  "No  more  Gothas,  no  more  subma- 
rines, we  can  go  home  to  see  grandma,  and  the  Ameri- 
cans finished  the  war!" 

"It  is  peace,  Mimi,  peace!"  I  said. 

327 


PARIS  VISTAS 

"What  is  peace*?"  asked  Mimi  bewildered. 

I  tried  to  explain.  She  could  not  understand.  The 
world  since  she  began  to  talk  and  receive  ideas  had  been 
air  raids  and  bombardments,  and  life  was  the  mighty 
effort  to  kill  Germans,  who  were  responsible  for  all 
that,  and  also  for  the  fact  that  there  was  not  enough 
butter  and  milk  and  sugar.  Mimi  knew  no  more  about 
peace  than  she  did  about  cake  and  boxes  of  candy  and 
white  bread.  Questioning  my  seven  year  old,  I  found 
that  his  notions  of  a  world  in  which  men  would  not 
fight  were  as  vague  as  Mimi's.  Lloyd  was  frankly 
puzzled.  Like  Mimi,  he  believed  that  the  armistice 
meant  no  more  Gothas  and  no  more  submarines,  but 
he  thought  surely  that  we  would  go  on  fighting  the  Ger- 
mans. Had  not  they  always  been  fighting  us*?  And 
if  we  weren't  going  to  fight  them  any  longer,  chasing 
them  back  to  their  own  country,  what  in  the  world 
would  we  do*?  And  how  could  Uncle  Clem  and  all  the 
other  soldier  friends  be  happy  without  any  work*? 

The  Artist  dropped  in  for  lunch.  Together  we  had 
seen  the  war  suddenly  come  upon  France.  Together 
we  were  to  see  it  as  suddenly  end.  "Do  you  know," 
he  said,  "everyone  in  the  quarter  is  going  to  the  Grands 
Boulevards.  Taxis  have  disappeared.  The  Metro 
and  Nord-Sud  are  jammed.  We  may  have  to  foot  it, 
like  most  people,  but  if  we  want  to  see  the  big  celebra- 
tion, we  must  get  over  to  the  Rive  Droite  this  after- 
noon." 

328 


ARMISTICE  NIGHT 

The  Artist  was  right.  As  Lester  and  Herbert  and 
I  went  down  the  Boulevard  Raspail  and  the  Boulevard 
Saint-Germain,  we  seemed  to  be  following  the  entire 
population  of  the  Rive  Gauche.  To  cross  the  bridge 
was  the  work  of  half  an  hour.  We  kept  near  the  cop- 
ing, and  had  time  to  see  the  crew  of  the  submarine 
Montgolfier  engaged  in  more  strenuous  work  than  sail- 
ing under  the  seas.  The  Montgolfier  was  brought  up 
to  the  center  of  Paris  a  fortnight  before  to  stimulate 
subscriptions  to  the  Victory  Loan.  The  Parisians  had 
been  allowed  to  subscribe  on  board.  To-day  the  crew 
was  busy  trying  to  keep  people  off  without  pushing 
them  into  the  river.  The  crowd  in  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde  overflowed  to  the  Champs-Elysees  and  the 
Tuileries.  Boys  were  climbing  over  the  German  tanks. 
They  sat  astride  the  big  cannon  trophies  and  invaded 
the  captured  aeroplanes  parked  on  the  terrace  of  the 
Tuileries.  Only  its  steep  sides  saved  the  obelisk. 

For  many  months  the  horses  of  Marly,  guarding  the 
entrance  to  the  Champs-Elysees,  had  been  protected  by 
sand-bags  and  boxed  up.  A  crowd  was  tearing  off  the 
boards  and  punching  holes  in  the  bags.  Air  raids 
were  a  thing  of  the  past,  and  these  hidden  treasures 
were  a  painful  memory  which  Paris  wanted  to  efface 
immediately.  A  gendarme  interfered  only  to  point  out 
the  danger  of  the  long  nails  in  the  ends  of  the  boards. 
He  insisted  that  the  nails  should  be  taken  out,  and  then 
the  boards  were  given  to  those  who  had  torn  them  off. 

329 


PARIS  VISTAS 

This  kindly  interference  appealed  to  the  good  sense  of 
the  crowd.  Men  were  putting  the  boards  across  their 
shoulders  to  parade  the  poilus  triumphantly  around  the 
Place.  The  gendarme  was  awarded  by  the  honor  of  a 
high  seat,  too. 

The  statues  of  the  cities  of  France  formed  splendid 
vantage-points,  and  they  were  crowded  with  the  agile 
and  venturesome.  Lille  and  Strasbourg,  however, 
were  respected.  When  Lille  was  delivered  last  month, 
the  statue  had  been  covered  with  flowers  and  wreaths 
and  flags.  As  it  symbolized  all  the  invaded  regions, 
new  offerings  had  been  coming  each  day  from  the  cities 
and  towns  that  were  being  freed.  In  the  midst  of  the 
joy  of  the  armistice,  this  tangible  evidence  of  victory 
was  receiving  more  offerings  each  hour.  We  could  see 
people  moving  towards  Lille  with  arms  aloft,  in  order 
that  flowers  should  not  be  crushed  in  the  jam.  There 
was  something  sublimely  pagan  about  the  offerings  to 
the  huge  statue.  And  Strasbourg!  After  nearly  half 
a  century,  this  was  Strasbourg's  day.  The  first  instinct 
of  the  crowd  was  to  tear  off  the  crepe.  But  the  govern- 
ment had  taken  precautions.  Strasbourg  was  to  be  un- 
veiled on  the  day  Marshal  Foch  and  his  army  enter  the 
city.  So  Strasbourg  was  protected  by  a  cordon  of  the 
Garde  Municipale. 

On  the  Rue  Royal  side  of  the  Hotel  de  Coislin,  which 
the  American  Red  Cross  occupied  since  our  entry  into 
the  war,  the  proclamation  of  the  mobilization  was  cov- 

330 


ARMISTICE  NIGHT 

ered  by  some  thoughtful  person  with  glass.  It  has  re- 
mained through  these  years,  defying  wind  and  rain  and 
souvenir-hunters,  a  constant  reminder  in  the  busy  thor- 
oughfare of  Paris's  last  Great  Day.  This  afternoon  a 
fresh  poster  had  been  put  beside  it.  We  read : 

INHABITANTS  OF  PARIS 

It  is  the  victory,  the  triumphal  victory!  On  all  the  fronts 
the  conquered  enemy  has  laid  down  his  arms.  Blood  is  going 
to  cease  flowing. 

Let  Paris  come  forth  from  the  proud  reserve  which  has  won 
for  her  the  admiration  of  the  world. 

Let  us  give  free  course  to  our  joy,  to  our  enthusiasm,  and 
let  us  keep  back  our  tears. 

To  witness  to  our  great  soldiers  and  to  their  incomparable 
chiefs  our  infinite  gratitude,  let  us  display  from  all  our  houses 
the  French  colors  and  those  of  our  Allies. 

Our  dead  can  sleep  in  peace.  The  sublime  sacrifice  which 
they  have  made  of  their  life  for  the  future  of  the  race  and  for 
the  safety  of  France  will  not  be  sterile. 

For  them  as  for  us  "the  day  of  glory  has  arrived." 

Vive  la  Republique ! 

Vive  la  France  Immortelle! 

THE  MUNICIPAL  COUNCIL. 

Paris  had  anticipated  the  advice  of  the  City  Fath- 
ers. Printers  and  bill  posters  were  not  quick  enough. 
But  the  proclamation  was  read  with  enthusiasm.  "Ca 
y  est  cette  fois-ci!"  cried  a  girl  who  had  just  come  out 
of  Maxim's. 

The  cry  was  taken  up  immediately  by  all  who  were 
gathered  around  the  poster,  and  we  heard  it  passing 

331 


PARIS  VISTAS 

from  mouth  to  mouth  as  we  worked  our  way  toward  the 
Madeleine.  Nothing  could  express  more  appropri- 
ately and  concisely  the  feeling  of  the  Parisians  than  this 
short  sentence.  Cette  fois-ci!  This  time!  There 
had  been  other  times  when  rejoicing  was  not  in  order. 
There  had  been  false  hopes,  just  as  there  had  been  false 
fears.  The  certitude  of  victory  cette  fois-ci — a  certi- 
tude coming  so  miraculously  a  few  months  after  incerti- 
tude and  doubt — was  the  explanation  of  the  fierce  mad 
joy  expressed  in  the  pandemonium  around  us. 

After  a  mile  on  the  Grand  Boulevards,  a  mile  that 
reminded  us  of  football  days,  the  Artist  said,  "This  is 
great  stuff  now,  and  will  be  greater  stuff  tonight.  I 
wonder  if  we  had  not  better  try  to  get  around  to 
other  places  before  dark  just  to  see,  you  know."  Be- 
yond the  Matin  office,  in  a  side  street  near  Marguery's, 
we  saw  a  taxi.  The  chauffeur  was  shaking  a  five  franc 
note,  and  heaping  curses  on  a  man  who  lost  himself  in 
the  boulevard  crowd.  We  ran  to  the  chauffeur  and 
told  him  we  would  make  it  up  to  him  for  the  cochon 
who  had  not  been  good  to  him. 

"Double  fare,  and  a  good  pourboire  beside,"  Her- 
bert insisted.  The  Artist  opened  the  door  and  started 
to  help  me  in. 

"By  all  the  virgins  in  France,  No!  A  thousand 
times  no !"  growled  the  chauffeur,  trying  to  keep  us  out. 

"We  meant  triple  fare,"  said  Lester.  I  disappeared 
inside  the  cab. 

332 


ARMISTICE  NIGHT 

"Where  do  Messieurs-Dame  want  to  go1?"  asked  the 
chauffeur  despairingly. 

"Rue  Lafayette,  Boulevard  Haussmann,  Etoile, 
Avenue  des  Champs-Elysees,  Invalides,  and  then  we  '11 
leave  you  at  the  Opera,"  I  suggested  hopefully. 

"What  you  want  is  an  aeroplane,"  he  remonstrated. 
But  triple  fare  is  triple  fare.  With  a  show  of  reluct- 
ance, he  cranked  and  we  rattled  off.  An  hour  later, 
after  we  had  escaped  being  taken  by  assault  a  dozen 
times,  resisted  attempts  to  pull  us  out  and  put  us  out, 
promised  to  pay  for  a  broken  window  and  a  stolen 
lamp,  and  used  cigarettes  and  persuasive  French  on  the 
man  upon  whose  goodwill  our  happiness  depended,  we 
found  ourselves  on  the  Avenue  de  1'Opera.  By  this 
time  the  chauffeur  was  resigned,  so  resigned  that  he 
tried  to  cross  the  Place  de  1' Opera.  We  were  tied  up  in 
a  mass  of  other  rashly-guided  vehicles  until  the  taxi's 
tires  flattened  out  under  the  weight  of  a  dozen  Aus- 
tralians who  had  climbed  on  our  roof.  We  were  cheer- 
ful about  it,  and  the  chauffeur  seemed  to  gather  equa- 
nimity with  misfortune.  November  11,  1918,  comes 
only  once  in  a  lifetime.  We  abandoned  our  taxi  and 
our  money,  and  tried  it  afoot  again. 

Fortune  was  with  us.  We  arrived  at  the  moment 
when  Mademoiselle  Chenal  appeared  on  the  balcony  of 
the  Opera  and  sang  the  "Marseillaise."  There  was  the 
stillness  of  death  during  the  verse.  But  the  prima  don- 
na's voice  was  heard  only  in  the  first  word  of  the  chorus. 

333 


PARIS  VISTAS 

When  the  crowd  took  up  the  chorus,  Paris  lived  one 
of  the  greatest  moments  of  her  history.  Over  and  over 
again  Mademoiselle  Chenal  waved  her  flag,  and  the 
chorus  was  repeated.  Then  she  withdrew.  Another 
verse  would  have  been  an  anti-climax.  We  were  car- 
ried along  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens  as  far  as  Appen- 
rodt's.  As  Herbert  and  Lester  were  talking  about  the 
night,  more  than  four  years  ago,  when  they  watched  the 
crowd  break  the  windows  of  this  and  other  German  or 
supposedly  German  places,  the  arc  lights  along  the  mid- 
dle of  the  boulevard  flashed  on.  Paris  of  peace  days 
reappeared. 

In  the  midst  of  it  all,  my  maternal  instinct  set  me 
worrying.  What  if  Alice,  the  gouvernante,  had  taken 
the  children  out  into  the  crowd*?  I  had  gone  off  with- 
out thinking  of  my  chicks.  We  tried  to  telephone. 
On  the  last  day  of  the  war  that  proved  as  impossible 
as  on  the  first.  My  escorts  were  quite  willing  to  return 
to  the  Rive  Gauche.  There  was  no  reason  why  the  cel- 
ebration would  not  be  just  as  interesting  on  the  Boul' 
Miche.  I  left  Herbert  and  Lester  on  the  terrace  of 
the  Cafe  Soufflet,  and  hurried  back  to  the  Boulevard  du 
Montparnasse.  When  I  reappeared  half  an  hour  later, 
Christine  was  with  me.  She  had  begged  so  hard  to  be 
taken  to  the  Grands  Boulevards.  After  all,  why  not? 
Christine  had  lived  through  all  the  war  in  France.  It 
was  her  right  to  be  in  on  the  rejoicing.  And  I  confess 
that  I  wanted  to  hear  what  she  would  say  when  she  saw 

334 


ARMISTICE  NIGHT 

the  lights.     She  was  so  young  when  the  war  started 
that  she  had  forgotten  what  lighted  streets  were. 

The  two  men  were  delighted  with  the  idea  of  dining 
across  the  river.  Despite  its  reputation  for  making 
the  most  of  a  celebration,  five  long  years  of  the  absence 
of  youth  had  atrophied  the  Boul'  Miche.  It  was  inter- 
esting, of  course,  but  not  what  we  thought  it  would  be. 

We  dined  at  the  Grand  Cafe.  We  went  early,  fear- 
ing that  even  being  in  the  good  graces  of  the  head 
waiter  might  not  secure  a  table.  But  having  a  table 
was  not  guarantee  of  the  possibility  of  ordering  a  meal 
worthy  of  the  occasion.  The  run  on  food  had  been  too 
severe  for  the  past  two  days.  And  the  market  people 
of  the  Halles  Centrales,  so  the  waiter  said,  began  their 
celebration  on  Saturday,  when  the  German  delegates 
appeared  to  demand  the  armistice.  They  would  with- 
hold their  produce  for  several  days,  and  get  higher 
prices.  The  cellars  held  out  nobly,  however,  so  food 
could  be  dispensed  with. 

During  the  first  hour,  mostly  waiting  for  dishes 
which  did  not  come,  there  was  a  lull.  The  effort  of 
the  afternoon  had  been  exhausting.  Some  groups  were 
just  about  to  leave  for  the  theatre  when  a  young  Amer- 
ican officer  jumped  on  his  chair,  holding  a  slipper  in  his 
hand.  Pouring  into  it  champagne,  he  proposed  the 
health  of  Marshal  Foch,  with  the  warning  that  other 
toasts  would  follow.  Immediately  there  was  a  bend- 
ing under  tables,  and  other  slippers  appeared.  The 

335 


PARIS  VISTAS 

fun  was  on.  Cosmopolitans  have  seen  New  Year's  Eve 
reveillons  that  were  "going  some,"  but  the  drinking  of 
the  health  of  Foch,  Petain,  Haig  and  Pershing  will  live 
in  the  memory  of  all  who  were  in  the  Grand  Cafe  on  the 
night  of  November  nth.  Tables  were  pushed  to- 
gether and  pyramided.  One  after  the  other  the  high- 
est officer  in  rank  in  each  of  the  Allied  armies  was 
dragged  from  his  place  and  lifted  up  between  the  chan- 
deliers. Over  the  revolving  doors  at  the  entrance  a 
young  lieutenant  led  the  singing  of  the  national  an- 
thems, using  flag  after  flag  as  they  were  handed  up  to 
him.  The  affair  was  decidedly  a  Vamcricaine,  as  a 
beaming  Frenchman  at  the  next  table  said.  There  was 
no  rowdyness,  no  drunkenness.  It  was  merrymaking 
into  which  everyone  entered.  The  owner  of  the  first 
slipper  was  an  American  head  nurse,  and  the  first 
Frenchwoman  to  jump  up  on  a  table  had  twin  sons  in 
the  Class  of  1919.  During  years  of  anguish  we  had 
been  subjected  to  a  severe  nervous  strain  and  to  repress- 
ing our  feelings.  The  French  bubbled  over  and  the 
English,  too,  and  they  were  willing  to  follow  the  lead 
of  the  Americans,  because  we  have  a  genius  for  celebrat- 
ing audibly  and  in  public. 

Once  more  out  in  the  night  air,  following  and  watch- 
ing the  night  crowd,  and  joining  in  or  being  drawn  into 
the  fun,  we  were  struck  by  the  ubiquity  of  American 
soldiers  and  their  leadership  in  every  stunt  which  drew 
the  crowd.  We  felt,  too,  the  spirit  of  good  camara- 

336 


I 


ARMISTICE  NIGHT 

dene  among  the  merrymakers.  Not  a  disagreeable  in- 
cident did  we  see.  The  stars  of  a  cloudless  sky  looked 
down  on  Paris  frolicking.  But  they  saw  nothing  that 
Paris,  emerging  from  her  noble  dignity  of  suffering  and 
anxiety,  need  be  ashamed  of.  Policemen  and  M.P.'s 
were  part  of  the  celebration. 

Lines  of  girls  and  poilus  danced  along  arm  in  arm. 
The  girls  wore  kepis,  and  the  poilus  hats  and  veils. 
No  soldier's  hat  and  buttons  and  collar  insignia  were 
safe.  The  price  of  the  theft  was  a  chase  and  a  kiss. 
Processions  crisscrossed  and  collided.  Mad  parades  of 
youngsters  not  yet  called  out  for  military  service 
bumped  into  ring-around-a-rosy  groups  which  held 
captive  American  and  British  and  Italian  soldiers. 

The  officers  and  sergeants  in  charge  of  American 
garages  were  either  taking  the  day  off  or  had  been  dis- 
regarded. For  in  the  midst  of  the  throngs  our  huge 
army  trucks  moved  slowly,  carrying  the  full  limit  of 
their  three  tons,  Sammies  and  midinettes,  waving  flags 
and  shouting. 

The  trophies  of  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  and  the 
Champs-Elysees  and  the  Place  de  1'Hotel  de  Ville  were 
raided.  Big  cannon  could  not  be  moved,  and  pushing 
far  the  tanks  was  too  exhausting  to  be  fun.  But  the 
smaller  cannon  on  wheels  and  the  caissons  took  the  route 
of  the  Grands  Boulevards.  Minenwerfer  and  A.D.C. 
(anti-aircraft  cannon)  disappeared  during  the  after- 
noon. Why  should  the  Government  have  all  the 

337 


PARIS  VISTAS 

trophies?  The  aspirations  of  souvenir-hunters  were 
not  always  limited  to  the  possible.  We  saw  a  group 
of  poilus  pulling  a  155-011.  cannon  on  the  Rue  du  Fau- 
bourg-Saint-Honore,  some  distance  from  the  Rue  Roy- 
ale.  They  were  actually  making  off  with  it !  A  po- 
liceman watched  them  with  an  indulgent  smile. 

"It 's  too  big,"  he  said.  "They  '11  get  tired  before 
the  night  is  over,  and  they  could  n't  hide  it  anyway. 
It  is  good  for  them  to  work  off  their  alcohol.  To-mor- 
row the  authorities  will  pick  up  that  cannon  some- 
where." 

The  clocks  on  the  Boulevard  "islands"  were  stopped 
at  eight  o'clock.  This  was  not  a  night  to  think  what 
time  it  was,  and  whether  the  Metro  had  ceased  running. 
Every  lamp-post  had  its  cheer-leader  or  orator. 

Confetti  and  streamers  of  uncelebrated  Mardi  Gras 
and  Mi-Caremes  had  their  use  this  night,  when  four 
years  of  postponed  festivals  were  made  up  for  in  few 
wild  and  joyous  hours.  What  had  begun  as  a  patriotic 
demonstration  was  ending  in  a  carnival.  The  "Mar- 
seillaise" gave  place  to  "Madelon,"  favorite  doggerel 
of  barracks  and  streets. 

The  most  dignified  had  to  unbend.  A  British  staff 
officer,  captured  by  a  bunch  of  girls,  was  made  to  march 
before  them  as  they  held  his  Burberry  rain-coat  like 
maids  of  honor  carrying  a  bride's  train.  He  was  a 
good  sport,  and  reconciled  himself  to  leading  a  danc- 
ing procession,  beating  time  with  his  bamboo  cane.  All 

338 


ARMISTICE  NIGHT 

the  Tommies  spied  en  route  were  pressed  into  line. 
A  French  General,  who  had  unwisely  come  out  in  uni- 
form, was  mobbed  by  the  crowd.  The  girls  kissed  him, 
and  older  people  asked  to  shake  his  hand.  He  sub- 
mitted to  their  grateful  joy  with  warm-hearted  and 
gracious  dignity.  But  when  a  band  of  poilus  came 
along,  brandishing  wicker  chairs  stolen  from  a  cafe  and 
asked  him  to  lead  them  in  a  charge,  that  was  too  much 
even  for  November  Eleventh.  The  General  retired  to 
the  safety  of  a  darkened  doorway. 

There  were  no  bands.  It  was  the  people's  night,  not 
the  army's  night,  and  tin  cans,  horns,  flags,  flowers, 
voices  and  kisses  were  enough  for  the  people's  celebra- 
tion. You  could  not  have  enjoyed  it  yourself  if  you 
had  not  the  spirit  of  a  child.  Children  need  no  elab- 
orate toys  to  express  themselves,  and  they  don't  like  to 
have  their  games  managed  for  them,  or  to  have  the 
amusement  provided  when  they  are  "just  playing." 

Some  Americans  rigged  up  a  skeleton  with  a  German 
cap.  They  followed  it  singing  "Onward,  Christian 
Soldiers."  The  song  was  as  novel  as  the  skeleton. 
Where  all  the  Americans  came  from  only  Heaven  and 
the  Provost-Marshal  knew,  and  there  is  a  strong  prob- 
ability that  the  latter  had  no  official  knowledge  of  the 
presence  of  most  of  them  in  Paris !  Our  soldiers  were 
disconso\ate  over  the  fact  that  they  could  not  buy  all 
the  flags  they  wanted.  The  shops  were  completely 
sold  out,  and  the  hawkers  were  reduced  to  offering  coc- 

339 


PARIS  VISTAS 

ardes.  We  heard  one  boy  say :  "If  I  can't  get  a  flag 
soon,  I  '11  climb  one  of  them  buildin's." 

"Gee!  better  not,"  advised  his  comrade;  "they'd 
shoot  you !" 

"Naw !     Shootin'  's  finished." 

The  shooting  was  finished.  That  is  what  the  sign- 
ing of  the  armistice  meant  to  Paris.  And,  as  it  meant 
the  same  to  the  whole  world,  every  city  in  the  Allied 
countries  must  have  had  its  November  Eleventh. 


340 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

ROYAL    VISITORS 

ONE  night  the  future  King  of  Siam  came  to  dine 
with  us.     I  took  him  into  the  nursery  to  see  the 
children.     Mimi  sat  bolt  upright   in  her  crib.     She 
eyed  the  young  stranger  and  frowned. 

"Hello,  king,"  she  said,  "where  's  your  crown *?" 
I  confessed  to  a  similar  feeling  when  from  the  bal- 
cony of  a  friend's  home  in  the  Avenue  du  Bois  de 
Bologne  I  saw  the  King  of  England  riding  into  Paris 
for  the  first  of  the  welcomes  we  were  giving  Allied  sov- 
ereigns. It  was  natural  that  Great  Britain  should  come 
ahead  of  other  nations.  England  had  been  the  com- 
rade-in-arms from  the  first  days  and  aided  powerfully 
in  preventing  the  Germans  from  reaching  Paris  in  the 
fierce  onslaught  of  1914.  But  it  is  a  pity  that  the 
King  was  not  accompanied  by  Marshal  French  or  Sir 
Douglas  Haig.  Parisians  are  peculiarly  sensitive  to 
personality.  George  V  has  none.  There  was  nothing 
in  the  role  he  had  played  during  the  war  to  make  the 
crowd  feel  that  he  personified  the  valiant  armies  of  the 
greatest  and  most  faithful  ally.  If  only  Beatty  or  Jel- 
licoe  had  ridden  with  him  through  the  Avenue  du  Bois 
and  down  the  Champs-Ely  sees.  The  war  had  not 

341 


PARIS  VISTAS 

deepened  the  enthusiasm  of  the  French  for  a  monarch 
simply  because  he  was  a  monarch.  A  crown  and  a 
royal  robe  might  have  helped  George  with  the  Paris 
crowd.  I  am  not  sure  even  then.  As  my  concierge 
put  it  when  I  told  her  that  I  was  going  to  cheer  the  royal 
visitor, 

"Voyons,  what  has  that  king  done  in  the  war  besides 
falling  off  his  horse?" 

And  then  the  weather  was  against  our  British  guest. 
I  do  not  care  what  the  occasion  is,  rain  and  enthusiasm 
do  not  go  together  in  a  Paris  crowd. 

The  King  of  the  Belgians  had  good  weather  and  re- 
ceived cheers  that  came  from  the  heart.  We  thought 
of  him  not  as  a  royal  personage  but  as  the  man  who 
had  saved  Paris  at  the  beginning  of  the  war  because 
he  put  honor  and  his  country  ahead  of  personal  interest 
and  blood.  The  French  saw  in  him  also  a  soldier  who 
had  lived  the  life  of  the  camp  sharing  the  hardships  and 
dangers  of  his  little  army  in  the  corner  of  Belgium  the 
Germans  were  never  able  to  conquer.  From  the  first 
day  of  the  war  to  the  signing  of  the  armistice,  Albert  I 
did  not  doff  his  uniform.  He  never  asked  of  his  sol- 
diers what  he  himself  was  not  ready  to  do.  And  he 
came  to  Paris  with  his  queen,  who  had  been  idolized  by 
the  French.  No  woman  in  the  world  was  so  popular  in 
France  as  Elizabeth  despite  her  German  origin. 

The  protocol  for  the  royal  visits  was  as  elaborate  as 
the  ceremony  proved  to  be  simple.  The  guests  were  re- 

342 


ROYAL  VISITORS 

ceived  by  President  and  Madame  Poincare  at  the  little 
Ceinture  station  at  the  Porte  Dauphine.  Headed  and 
followed  by  a  single  row  of  gardes  republicaines  on 
horse,  they  rode  in  open  carriages  down  the  Avenue  du 
Bois  de  Bologne  and  the  Champs-Elysees  and  across 
the  Pont  de  la  Concorde  to  the  Palais  d'Orsay  where 
they  were  lodged.  Infantry  regiments,  lining  the 
route,  aided  the  police  in  keeping  order.  There  was 
no  parade  and  no  music.  The  attention  and  the  accla- 
mation of  the  crowd  were  concentrated  on  the  visitors. 
As  state  carriages  are  swung  high,  every  one  was  able 
to  see  the  king.  The  Avenue  du  Bois  is  ideal  for  a 
procession.  The  park  slopes  up  on  either  side,  afford- 
ing a  clear  view  for  hundreds  of  thousands.  And  there 
are  innumerable  trees  for  boys. 

Those  who  were  unable  to  get  to  the  Avenue  du  Bois 
or  the  Champs-Elysees  at  the  time  the  visitors  came  had 
a  chance  to  see  them  in  the  streets  afterward.  For  vis- 
its were  exchanged  between  the  royal  visitors  and  Pres- 
ident Poincare,  and  on  the  second  day  of  the  visit  they 
rode  in  state  down  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  to  receive  the  free- 
dom of  Paris  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville.  The  return  from 
the  Hotel  de  Ville  was  made  by  the  Grands  Boulevards 
and  the  Rue  Royale.  Then  on  the  first  evening  was 
the  state  dinner  at  the  Elysee  and  on  the  second  even- 
ing the  gala  performance  at  the  Opera.  If  any  one  in 
Paris  did  not  see  the  sovereigns,  it  was  not  because  of 
lack  of  opportunity. 

343 


PARIS  VISTAS 

The  evening  before  we  were  to  receive  President  Wil- 
son, Rosalie  burst  into  my  room  in  great  excitement. 

"Hush,  hush!"  I  whispered.  "I  have  just  put  the 
baby  to  bed." 

But  my  pretty  little  cook  did  not  hear  me.  She  hur- 
ried to  the  window  and  bounced  out  on  the  balcony. 
I  followed. 

"What  is  the  matter?'  I  asked.  "N 

"Madame  has  only  to  listen:  every  church  bell  in 
Paris  is  ringing.  What  is  it,  Madame?  In  my  Brit- 
tany village  the  bells  rang  that  way  only  when  they 
posted  the  mobilization  order  at  the  mairie.  Is  it  the 
tocsin?  Is  the  war  going  to  begin  again*?" 

"Of  course  not,"  I  answered.  "It 's  a  whole  month 
since  the  armistice.  Cheer  up,  Rosalie,  perhaps  the 
Kaiser  is  dead." 

The  older  children  and  Elisa  and  Alice  were  now 
with  us.  The  bells  continued  ringing,  and  we  heard 
cannon,  one  boom  after  another.  It  was  the  salute 
that  had  been  given  for  the  royal  visitors  by  the  guns 
of  Mont  Valerian.  Now  we  realized  that  the  special 
train  from  Brest  had  arrived. 

"It  is  the  President-Vilsonne!"  said  Alice  in  the  rev- 
erent tone,  that  she  had  been  taught  to  use  in  speaking 
of  "1'Eternel."  If  you  have  heard  a  French  Protest- 
ant reciting  a  psalm,  and  pronouncing  the  beautiful 
French  word  for  Jehovah,  you  will  understand  what  I 
mean. 

344 


ROYAL  VISITORS 

My  young  governess  struck  the  note  of  the  Wilsonian 
greeting.  All  that  has  happened  since  that  memorable 
December  day  has  dispelled  little  by  little  the  legend 
of  the  Wilson  who  was  to  deliver  the  world  from  the 
bondage  of  war.  The  French  quickly  discovered  that 
their  idol  had  feet  of  clay.  Whether  they  expected  too 
much  from  what  President  Wilson  had  said  in  his 
speeches  or  whether  his  failure  to  make  good  his  prom- 
ises was  due  to  circumstances  beyond  his  power  to  con- 
trol is  not  for  us  to  judge.  We  do  not  know  the  facts 
and  we  have  no  perspective.  But  at  the  moment  we 
did  not  foresee  the  disappointment  in  store  for  us.  A 
merciful  providence,  veiling  the  future,  allows  us  the 
joy  of  entertaining  hopes  without  realizing  that  they 
are  illusions.  Legends  are  beautiful  and  touching. 
But  they  are  most  precious  when  you  think  they  are 
true,  and  nothing  can  rob  one  of  the  memory  of  mo- 
ments on  the  mountain  top. 

Fearing  that  the  Metro  to  the  Place  de  PEtoile 
would  be  crowded,  we  got  up  very  early  that  Saturday 
morning.  The  day  of  President  Wilson's  coming — 
whatever  day  the  great  event  would  happen — had  been 
declared  beforehand  a  holiday.  So  we  could  take  the 
children  with  us.  We  were  none  too  soon.  All  Paris 
of  our  quarter  was  going  in  the  same  direction.  With- 
out a  grown  person  for  each  child,  the  Metro  would 
have  been  difficult.  When  we  came  up  at  Kleber  sta- 
tion the  aspect  of  the  streets  around  the  Etoile  assured 

345 


PARIS  VISTAS 

us  that  the  Wilson  welcome  would  break  all  records. 
We  passed  through  side  streets  to  the  Avenue  du  Bois 
— by  the  corner  of  the  Etoile  it  was  already  impossible, 
and  thanked  our  stars  that  the  friends  who  invited  us  to 
see  the  royal  visits  from  their  apartment  lived  on  the 
near  side  of  the  street.  To  cross  the  Avenue  du  Bois 
would  have  been  a  problem. 

Lloyd  struck  against  going  up  to  the  wonderful  van- 
tage point  on  a  fourth  floor.  The  good  things  Aunt 
Eleanor  and  Aunt  Caroline  would  certainly  have  for 
him  to  eat  meant  nothing  when  he  saw  boys  in  trees. 
Having  no  good  reason  to  deny  him,  his  father  yielded. 
My  son  climbed  a  tree  near  the  sidewalk  with  Herbert 
standing  guardian  below  while  the  rest  of  us  were  high 
above. 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  describe  the  welcome  given  to 
President  Wilson.  After  the  carriages  passed  and  the 
crowd  broke,  the  children  went  home.  Herbert  and  I 
followed  the  current  of  enthusiastic,  delirious  Parisians 
down  the  Champs-Elysees,  up  the  Rue  Royale  and  the 
Avenue  Malesherbes.  Wilson  beamed  and  responded 
to  the  greeting  of  Paris.  He  did  not  grasp  what  that 
greeting  meant.  Clemenceau,  Parisian  himself,  knew 
that  the  power  to  change  the  world  was  in  the  hands  of 
the  man  riding  ahead  of  him.  But  this  is  retrospect! 
I  did  not  realize  then  that  one  of  the  greatest  tragedies 
of  history  was  being  enacted  under  my  eyes.  Perhaps 
I  am  wrong  in  thinking  so  now.  Who  knows? 

346 


ROYAL  VISITORS 

More  significant  in  its  potentiality  than  the  initial 
greeting  to  President  Wilson  was  the  acclamation  that 
greeted  him  when  he  went  to-  the  Hotel  de  Ville. 
Belleville  turned  out.  From  the  heart  of  the  common 
people  came  the  cry,  "Vive  la  paix  Wilsonienne!"  It 
was  taken  up  and  re-echoed  with  frenzy  when  the  guest 
of  Paris  appeared  on  the  balcony  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville. 

The  coming  of  the  King  of  Italy  was  an  anti-climax. 
Paris,  of  course,  responded  with  her  customary  polite- 
ness to  the  duty  of  welcoming  the  sovereign  of  France's 
Latin  ally.  But  heart  was  lacking  in  the  reception  to 
Victor  Emanuel  III.  The  comparative  coolness  was 
not  intentional.  I  am  sure  of  that.  It  was  simply 
that  we  were  coming  down  from  the  mountain  top  to 
earth. 

And  when  the  Peace  Conference  assembled,  Paris 
very  quickly  realized  that  the  hope  of  a  new  world  was 
an  illusion.  Our  royal  visitors  came  at  the  right  mo- 
ment. Paris  will  give  enthusiastic  welcome  to  other 
rulers  in  future  days.  But  not  in  our  generation !  A 
famous  saying  of  Abraham  Lincoln's  comes  into  my 
mind.  There  is  no  need  to  quote  it. 


347 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

THE    FIRST    PEACE    CHRISTMAS 

CT)EACE  on  earth:  good- will  towards  men!"  For 
JL  five  years  the  motto  of  Christmas  had  seemed  a 
mockery  to  us.  Our  city  was  the  goal  of  the  German 
armies.  They  reached  it  sometimes  with  their  aero- 
planes, and  before  the  end  of  the  war  they  reached  it 
with  their  cannon.  Scarcely  fifty  miles  away  from  us 
— within  hearing  distance  when  the  bombardment  was 
violent — fathers  and  sons,  brothers  and  sweethearts 
were  fighting  through  the  weary  years  in  constant  dan- 
ger of  death.  Each  Christmas  brought  more  vacant 
places  to  mourn.  Of  course  we  celebrated  Christmas 
all  through  the  war.  There  was  little  heart  in  it  for 
grown-ups.  But  we  had  the  children  to  think  of. 
The  war  must  not  be  allowed  to  rob  them  of  childhood 
Christmas  memories. 

In  1918,  we  were  looking  forward  to  a  Christmas 
that  would  be  Christmas.  All  around  us  the  Christmas 
spirit  was  accumulating.  The  war  was  over:  we  had 
won.  Ever  since  Armistice  Night  we  had  been  saying 
to  ourselves — "And  now  for  Christmas!"  We  might 
have  to  wait  for  a  revival  of  the  second  part  of  the 

348 


THE  FIRST  PEACE  CHRISTMAS 

Christ  Child's  message.  But  at  least  the  first  part  was 
once  more  a  reality. 

Three  days  before  Christmas  I  sent  a  telegram.  I 
took  my  brother's  enigmatic  military  address  and  put 
two  words  in  front  of  it,  Commanding  Officer.  I 
begged  the  gentleman  to  have  a  heart  and  send  me  my 
brother  for  Christmas  Day.  I  told  him  that  I  had 
not  seen  my  family  for  five  years,  that  four  little  chil- 
dren born  abroad  wanted  their  uncle,  and  that  we  would 
welcome  the  C.  O.,  too,  if  Christmas  in  Paris  tempted 
him.  On  the  morning  of  December  24  brother  ap- 
peared, and  before  lunch  many  others  I  had  invited  "to 
stay  over  Christmas"  turned  up  or  telephoned  that  they 
would  be  with  us.  I  had  to  plan  hastily  how  the  stu- 
dios in  the  Rue  Campagne-Premiere  could  be  turned 
into  dormitories  for  a  colonel  of  infantry,  a  major  of 
the  General  Staff,  captains  of  aviation  and  engineers 
and  the  Spa  Armistice  Commission,  lieutenants  and  ser- 
geants and  privates  of  all  branches.  Last  year  few  of 
the  invitations  to  men  in  the  field  were  accepted.  This 
year  all  came — some  all  the  way  from  the  Rhine. 
Bless  my  soul,  we  'd  tuck  them  in  somewhere.  And  on 
Christmars  Eve  we  were  going  to  have  open  house  for 
the  A.  E.  F.,  welfare  workers,  peace  delegates  and  spe- 
cialists, and  fellow-craftsmen  of  our  own. 

As  each  house  guest  arrived,  I  gave  him  a  job.  His 
"But  can't  I  do  anything  to  help*?"  was  scarcely  fin- 
ished before  he  was  commissioned  to  blankets,  army- 

349 


PARIS  VISTAS 

cots,  candles,  nuts,  fruits,  bon-bons,  drinks,  or  sand- 
wiches. "Just  that  one  thing.  I  rely  on  you  for  that," 
I  would  say.  None  failed  me,  and  the  evening  came 
with  everything  arranged  as  if  by  magic.  I  have  never 
found  it  hard  to  entertain,  and  the  more  the  merrier: 
but  when  you  have  American  men  to  deal  with,  it  is 
the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  have  a  party — in  Paris 
or  anywhere  else. 

Of  course  I  went  shopping  myself.  Herbert  and  I 
would  not  miss  that  day  before  Christmas  last  minute 
rush  for  anything.  And  even  if  I  risk  seeming  to  talk 
against  the  sane  and  humane  "shop  early  for  Christ- 
mas" propaganda,  I  am  going  to  say  that  the  fun  and 
joy  of  Christmas  shopping  is  doing  it  on  the  twenty- 
fourth.  Avoid  the  crowds'?  I  don't  want  to !  I  want 
to  get  right  in  the  midst  of  them.  I  want  to  shove  my 
way  up  to  counters.  I  want  to  buy  things  that  catch 
my  eye  and  that  I  never  thought  of  buying  and 
would  n't  buy  on  any  other  day  in  the  year  than  Decem- 
ber 24th.  I  want  to  spend  more  money  than  I  can 
afford-.  I  want  to  experience  that  sweet  panicky  feel- 
ing that  I  really  have  n't  enough  things  and  to  worry 
over  whether  my  purchases  can  be  divided  fairly  among 
my  quartette.  I  want  to  go  home  after  dark,  revel- 
ling in  the  flare  of  lamps  on  hawkers'  carts  lighting 
up  mistletoe,  holly  wreaths  and  Christmas  trees,  stop- 
ping here  and  there  to  buy  another  pound  of  candy  or 
box  of  dates  or  foolish  bauble  for  the  tree.  I  want  to 

350 


THE  FIRST  PEACE  CHRISTMAS 

shove  bundle  after  bundle  into  the  arms  of  my  protest- 
ing husband  and  remind  him  that  Christmas  comes  but 
once  a  year  until  he  becomes  profane.  And,  once 
home,  on  what  other  winter  evening  than  December 
24th,  would  you  find  pleasure  in  dumping  the  whole 
lot  on  your  bed,  adding  the  jumble  of  toys  and  books 
already  purchased  or  sent  by  friends,  and  calmly  mak- 
ing the  children's  piles  with  puckered  brow  and  all 
other  thoughts  banished,  despite  aching  back  and  legs, 
impatient  husband,  cross  servants  and  a  dozen  dinner 
guests  waiting  in  the  drawing- room? 

Paris  is  the  ideal  city  for  afternoon-before-Christmas 
shopping.  Much  of  the  Christmas  trading  is  on  the 
streets.  It  gets  dark  early  enough  to  enjoy  the  effect  of 
the  lights  for  a  couple  of  hours  before  you  have  to 
go  home.  You  have  crowds  to  your  heart's  content. 
And  Paris  is  the  department-store  city  par  excellence. 
Scrooge  would  not  have  needed  a  ghost  in  Paris.  If 
you  have  no  Christmas  spirit,  go  to  the  Bazar  de  la 
Rue  de  Rennes,  the  Bon  Marche,  the  Trois-Quartiers, 
the  Printemps,  the  Galeries  Lafayette,  Dufayel,  the 
Louvre,  the  Belle  Jardiniere  and  the  Bazar  de  1'Hotel 
de  Ville.  Do  not  miss  any  of  these,  especially  the  first 
and  the  last.  At  the  Bazar  de  la  Rue  de  Rennes  the 
Christmas  toys  are  on  counters  according  to  price. 
Woolworth  only  tells  you  what  you  can  get  for  five  or 
ten  cents.  The  range  of  prices  on  the  Rue  de  Rennes 
is  adjusted  to  all  pocketbooks.  At  the  Hotel  de  Ville 

351 


PARIS  VISTAS 

you  do  not  have  to  wait  for  a  saleswoman  at  the  out- 
side rayons.  You  hold  up  the  article  you  want  and 
catch  the  cashier's  eye.  He  pokes  out  to  you  a  box  on 
the  end  of  a  pole  such  as  they  used  to  use  in  churches 
before  we  became  honest  enough  to  be  trusted  with  a 
plate.  You  put  your  money  in.  If  there  is  change, 
he  thrusts  it  back  immediately. 

On  the  Grands  Boulevards  and  in  our  x)wn  Mont- 
parnasse  Quarter,  the  Christmas  crowds  were  like  those 
of  the  happy  days  before  we  entered  into  the  valley  of 
the  shadow.  As  we  did  our  rounds,  falling  back  into 
peace  habits  and  the  old  frame  of  mind,  I  realized  how 
hollow  was  our  celebration  of  the  war  Christmases,  how 
we  pretended  and  made  the  effort  for  our  children's 
sakes.  The  nightmare  was  finished!  Really,  I  sup- 
pose, we  had  less  money  than  ever  to  spend  and  every- 
thing was  dear.  But  everybody  was  buying  in  a  lavish 
way  that  was  natural  after  the  repression  of  years. 
Bargaining — a  practise  in  street  buying  before  the  war 
— would  have  been  bad  taste.  We  paid  cheerfully 
what  was  asked. 

I  was  hurrying  home  along  the  Rue  de  Rennes  with 
one  of  my  soldier  guests.  Herbert  and  my  brother  had 
left  us  on  the  Boulevards  to  get  ham  and  tongue  at  Ap- 
penrodt's  and  peanuts  and  sweet  potatoes  at  Hediard's. 
A  vender,  recognizing  the  American  uniform,  accosted 
my  companion  with  a  grin,  as  she  held  out  an  armful 
of  mimosa  blossoms. 

352 


THE  FIRST  PEACE  CHRISTMAS 

"Fresh  from  Nice  this  morning,  mon  capitaine — 
only  fifty  francs  for  all  this !" 

"Come,  Keith,"  I  cried,  "she  wants  to  rob  you !" 

The  woman  understood  the  intent  if  not  the  words. 
Barring  our  way,  she  reached  over  to  her  cart  and  added 
another  bunch,  observing,  "It 's  Christmas  and  I  give 
our  allies  good  measure."  Keith  took  it  all,  saying, 
"Don't  stop  me ;  I  have  n't  spent  any  money  for  months 
— and  Mother  always  made  such  a  wonderful  Christ- 
mas. I  've  got  to  spend  money — a  lot  cf  money." 
He  patted  his  pocket.  "Two  months'  pay  here  that  I 
have  n't  touched  yet !" 

Christine  arranged  the  mimosa  in  tall  brass  shell 
cases  from  Chateau-Thierry.  "See  my  flowers!"  she 
exclaimed.  "This  is  better  than  war!" 

The  Consul-General  (always  a  Christmas  Eve  guest 
in  our  home) ;  the  colonel  commanding  the  hospital  in 
the  Rue  de  Chevreuse;  a  New  York  editor  and  his  wife; 
a  confrere  of  the  French  press  and  his  wife;  a  Peace 
Delegate ;  and  the  head  of  a  New  York  publishing  firm, 
who  looked  in  to  see  if  we  were  really  working;  sat 
down  with  us  to  dinner,  squeezed  in  with  our  A.  E.  F. 
guests.  When  the  last  flicker  of  plum-pudding  sauce 
died  down,  we  set  to  work  for  the  Christmas  Eve  prep- 
arations. There  was  no  question  of  rank  or  age! 
Each  one  fell  to  the  task  at  hand.  Dishes,  glasses,  bot- 
tles, doilies  disappeared  into  the  kitchen.  The  table 
was  set  for  the  big  party,  piles  of  plates  with  knives  and 

353 


PARIS  VISTAS 

forks  on  each  corner,  sandwiches  and  rolls,  a  cold  boiled 
ham,  a  tongue  ecarlate  as  tongues  come  in  Paris,  tur- 
keys roasted  by  our  baker,  olives,  salted  almonds,  army 
graham  crackers,  candy,  a  tall  glass  jar  of  golden  honey 
worth  its  weight  in  gold,  and  the  fruit  cake  with  sprigs 
of  holly  that  comes  across  the  Atlantic  every  Christmas 
from  a  dear  American  friend.  People  could  help 
themselves.  How  and  when — I  never  worry  about 
that.  My  only  care  is  to  have  enough  for  all  comers. 

We  sent  out  no  invitations.  The  news  simply 
passed  by  word  of  mouth  that  friends  and  friends' 
friends  were  welcome  on  Christmas  Eve.  In  a  corner 
of  the  drawing-room  the  engineers  of  the  party  made 
the  Christmas  tree  stand  up.  The  trimmings  were  on 
the  floor.  Whoever  wanted  to  could  decorate.  With 
the  trenches  of  five  years  between  us  and  Germany, 
Christmas  tree  trimmings  were  pitiful  if  judged  by  ante- 
bellum standards.  I  wonder  what  my  children  are  go- 
ing to  think  when  they  see  this  Christmas  a  full-grown 
tree  with  the  wealth  of  balls  and  stars  and  tinsel  Amer- 
icans have  to  use.  In  Paris  we  had  so  few  baubles  and 
pieced  out  with  colored  string  and  cotton  and  flags  and 
ribbon.  But  the  effect  was  not  bad  with  the  brains  of 
half  a  hundred  trimmers  contributing  to  work  out  ideas 
on  a  tree  that  did  not  come  up  to  my  chin. 

We  started  the  victrola — "Minuit,  Cretien,"  "It 
Came  upon  a  Midnight  Clear,"  "Adeste  Fideles,"  and 
— whisper  it  softly — "Heilige  Nacht."  Then  our 

354 


THE  FIRST  PEACE  CHRISTMAS 

guests  began  to  come  until  salons  and  hall  and  dining- 
room  overflowed  into  bed-rooms.  Never  again  can  I 
hope  to  have  under  my  roof  a  party  like  that,  repre- 
senting many  of  the  nations  that  had  fought  together 
on  the  soil  of  France,  but  with  homesick  Americans, 
Christmas  hungry,  predominating.  The  first  to  arrive 
were  patients  from  the  American  Hospital  in  the  Rue 
de  Chevreuse  who  had  been  unable  to  forget  the  night- 
mare of  war  when  the  armistice  came. 

Crutches  and  the  music,  the  tree  and  my  children,  an 
American  home — the  first  reaction  was  not  merriment. 
I  felt  instinctively  that  something  had  to  be  done. 
"Heilige  Nacht"  brought  a  hush.  Someone  turned 
off  the  phonograph.  Bill  took  in  the  situation.  Every- 
one in  America  who  reads  knows  Bill.  He  backed  up 
into  a  corner  by  the  bookcase,  took  off  his  glasses,  and 
began  to  make  a  speech. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  am  an  unregenerate  soul. 
There  is  not  a  respectable  bone  in  my  body.  I  am  go- 
ing to  sing  you  a  little  ditty,  the  national  anthem  of 
California."  Here  Bill  winked  his  eyes  and  opened 
his  mouth  wide  to  sing : 

"Hallelujah!     I 'ma  bum!" 

"The  writer  of  the  song  is  an  I.  W.  W.,"  he  inter- 
rupted himself,  "and  at  the  end  of  the  first  line  from 
upstairs  is  heard  the  voice  of  his  wife  demanding  (here 
Bill  changed  to  high  falsetto), 

355 


PARIS  VISTAS 

"Oh,  why  don't  you  work 
As  other  men  do?" 

Then  the  I.  W.  W.  answers  gently, 

"Why  the  H should  I  work 

When  there  is  no  work  to  do?" 

I  told  you  I  was  an  unregenerate  soul.  I  see  that  I  'm 
not  alone,  there  are  others  here  like  myself.  I  want  a 
volunteer  to  sing  my  part  with  me  and  volunteeresses, 
equally  unregenerate,  for  the  pointed  question  of  the 
I.  W.  W.'s  wife. 

"The  gentleman  there  with  the  eagles  on  his  shoul- 
ders— I  have  for  you  a  fellow  feeling,  you  are  dis- 
reputable like  me.  Come !  And  the  little  girl  in  the 
pink  dress  that  only  looks  innocent.  Come  you  here. 
And  others  of  like  character  join  us  as  quickly  as  you 
can  push  your  way  through  the  admiring  audience." 

The  surgeon  from  New  York,  who  is  as  military  as 
any  regular  army  man,  was  a  good  sport.  So  was  the 
editor's  wife.  As  he  reached  both  hands  to  the  re- 
cruits, Bill  did  a  simple  dance  step,  the  contagious  step 
of  the  Virginia  Reel  when  other  couples  are  doing  the 
figures.  Soon  the  chorus  was  a  line  that  reached  the 
hall.  At  this  moment  there  were  shouts  of  laughter 
at  the  front  door.  A  parade  of  alternating  khaki  and 
nurse's  blue  invaded  the  salon.  Each  had  a  flag  or 
horn.  The  chorus  and  parade  joined  forces,  with  Bill 
as  leader,  and  soon 

356 


THE  FIRST  PEACE  CHRISTMAS 

"Hallelujah!     I'm  a  bum!" 

was  being  sung  in  every  room  of  the  apartment  at  the 
same  time.  Crutches  were  no  deterrent  to  joining  the 
serpentine  march  from  room  to  room.  The  chorus 
grew  and  the  dining-room  was  deserted.  Strong  arms 
picked  up  babies  in  nighties  and  we  were  all  in  the 
parade. 

I  did  not  know  half  of  my  guests  and  never  will. 
Some  of  them  are  sure  to  read  this  and  will  remem- 
ber that  night  in  Paris  when  C.  O.'s  and  journalists 
tired  of  the  grind,  nurses  weary  of  watching,  wounded 
and  homesick  who  had  not  expected  to  laugh  that 
Christmas  Eve,  and  soldiers  fresh  from  chilly  camps 
and  remote  and  dirty  villages  caught  the  spirit  of 
Christmas.  When  people  forget  their  cares  and  woes, 
they  always  behave  like  children.  The  national  an- 
them of  California  made  my  party,  where  Christmas 
carols  had  proved  too  tear  impelling.  After  "Halle- 
lujah! I  'm  a  bum!"  wore  itself  out,  nobody  needed 
to  be  introduced  to  anybody  else  and  everything  dis- 
appeared from  the  dining-room  table. 

While  the  party  was  still  raging,  Herbert  and  I 
slipped  for  a  moment  out  on  the  balcony.  Merry- 
makers with  lighted  lanterns  passed  along  the  Boule- 
vard du  Montparnasse,  singing  and  shouting.  Before 
us  lay  Paris,  not  the  Paris  dark  and  fearful  to  which  we 
had  become  accustomed  when  we  stood  there  after  the 

357 


PARIS  VISTAS 

warning  of  the  sirens  and  listened  for  the  tir  de  barrage 
to  tell  us  whether  the  time  had  come  to  take  the  chil- 
dren downstairs,  but  Paris  alight  and  alive,  Paris  en- 
joying the  reward  of  having  kept  faith  with  France  and 
with  the  civilized  world. 


358 


1919 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

PLOTTING    PEACE 

'T  \  TAS  it  on  purpose,  Madame,"  said  the  Persian 
V  V    Minister  to  Paris,    "that  you   wore   a  green 
hat  today?" 

We  were  lunching  with  the  Persian  Delegation.  I 
took  off  my  turban  and  dropped  it  on  the  floor  at  the 
side  of  the  chair. 

"Poor  hat!"  said  I.  "Look  at  its  color.  Brand 
new,  you  know,  and  faded  like  that.  It  happened  on 
the  first  sunny  day  after  I  bought  it.  We  need  to  plot 
a  peace  so  that  we  can  find  good  German  dyes  for  our 
clothes.  Why  did  you  want  to  know  if  I  wore  it  on 
purpose*?" 

"Green  is  the  sacred  color  of  Persia,"  said  the  Min- 
ister smiling,  "and  it  pleases  us  to  see  it.  You  were 
speaking  of  peace.  We  need  peace  and  quickly.  And 
after  that — what*?  We  were  more  or  less  prepared  for 
war,  but  who  thought  while  we  were  at  war  about  pre- 
paring for  peace*?  Not  one  of  the  countries  sent  dele- 
gates with  a  workable  plan.  Part  of  our  preparedness 
should  have  been  a  peace  program.  Nobody  thought 
a  year  ago  to  call  a  conference  of  specialists.  That 's 
why  negotiations  drag  on  forever." 

361 


PARIS  VISTAS 

"I  know,"  I  answered,  "we  are  used  to  war  and  we 
must  get  used  to  peace  now  that  it  is  coming.  The 
other  day  at  luncheon  my  husband  asked  the  children 
to  define  war. 

"  'War  is  men  getting  hurted.  The  Germans  did  do 
it  and  I  don't  like  'em,'  said  Mimi. 

'War  is  men  at  the  front  and  cannon  going  off,' 
said  Lloyd. 

"  'Yes,  and  war  makes  the  mamas  work  in  the  sub- 
way, and  when  it 's  war  you  can't  have  sugar  in  your 
milk  and  we  have  air  raids  and  Big  Berthas,  and  it 
makes  people  cry  when  the  soldiers  go  away  from  the 
railroad  station,'  said  Christine  all  in  one  breath. 

"And  we  realized  that  although  it  seemed  like  an- 
other world,  we  grown-ups  could  look  back  to  before  the 
war;  but  little  children  begin  to  remember  in  a  world 
at  war." 

"And  what  is  peace?"  said  the  Minister.  "It  will 
not  exist  again  for  your  children  and  mine  until  we 
educate  our  democracies  in  international  understanding. 
The  people  of  one  country  must  know  the  people  of 
another.  When  we  say  France  wants  this  or  Italy 
wants  that,  we  are  not  talking  about  the  people.  How 
much  did  our  Persians  know  about  America  beyond  the 
fact  that  missionaries  came  from  there*?  How  much 
did  you  know  about  Persia  beyond  rugs  and  kittens  and 
the  Rubaiyat*?  I  mean  you  collectively.  How  many 
of  our  people  and  how  many  of  yours  understood  what 

362 


PLOTTING  PEACE 

Morgan  Shuster  was  trying  to  do?  No,  no,  we  must 
not  drop  propaganda  after  the  signature  of  peace.  We 
must  have  exchange  students — in  agriculture  and  com- 
merce and  the  professions.  And  then,"  continued  the 
Minister,  "peace  must  bring  us  work,  work  for  every- 
body. Work  is  the  only  remedy  for  most  of  the  ills  of 
the  world.  And  that  means  a  common  international 
effort  to  bring  raw  materials  to,  and  to  aid  in  the  re- 
construction of,  the  countries  that  have  been  battle- 
fields." 

"Will  peace  give  us  all  of  that?"  I  enquired.  "It 
sounds  like  the  millennium." 

"If  we  think  of  peace  as  an  abstract  something  that 
will  drop  on  us  from  one  day  to  another  we  shall  have 
no  change  from  the  war-breeding  conditions  of  the  past. 
Permanent  peace  is  a  state  of  mind.  A  state  of  mind 
among  the  people  and  strong  enough  to  control  the  ac- 
tions of  political  leaders.  Understanding,  I  tell  you, 
understanding  is  the  only  way." 

"I  am  afraid,"  said  I,  "it  will  be  a  cold  day  before  the 
people  will  have  much  to  say  about  war  and  peace. 
Throughout  our  politicians  are  all  tarred  with  the  same 
brush.  Invite  a  doctor,  a  brick-layer,  a  parson  and  a 
mother  of  five  children  to  come  from  each  country.  Sit 
them  down  together  at  one  big  table  and  I  'd  wager 
they  'd  make  a  good  peace  quickly.  We  like  to  say 
that  the  five  per  cent,  of  educated  men  rule  the  other 
ninety-five  per  cent.  What  is  the  fiendish  power  that 

363 


PARIS  VISTAS 

lets  rotten  diplomacy  order  us  out  to  kill  each  other? 
The  world  will  have  to  suffer  a  good  deal  more  before 
we  learn  the  lesson.  When  wire-pulling  and  economic 
jealousies  wish  it,  the  politicians  can  plunge  the  peoples 
into  a  war  again  without  their  knowing  how  and  why !" 

"The  war  that  was  to  end  war,"  said  the  Minister, 
bitterly.  He  was  thinking  of  the  mockery  of  the  So- 
ciety of  Nations  as  applied  to  his  own  country. 

"This  war  that  was  to  end  war  could  have  ended  it," 
I  cried,  "if  the  Peace  Delegates  had  n't  come  here  cov- 
ering their  greed  and  their  imperialism  with  a  camou- 
flage of  belles  phrases.  For  the  life  of  me,  I  cannot  see 
why  some  real  leader  does  not  emerge  at  this  crisis, 
and  force  the  peacemakers  to  do  what  the  doctor,  the 
concierge,  the  little  tradesman,  the  professor, — the  peo- 
ple— all  knew  in  the  beginning  had  to  be  done.  First 
make  peace  with  Germany.  Then  sit  around  the  table 
men  representing  the  world  and  draw  up  a  League  of 
Nations.  A  league  without  Germany  and  Russia  is 
only  an  offensive  or  defensive  alliance.  Same  old  game 
over  again.  This  peace  conference  does  n't  recognize 
give  and  take.  It  is  all  take.  And  they  refuse  to  allow 
themselves  and  their  frontiers  to  be  measured  by  the 
same  tape-line  we  propose  to  use  on  our  enemies.  This 
means  simply  that  we  are  going  to  have  once  more  the 
old-fashioned  peace  of  might  making  right.  I  believe 
in  a  League  of  Nations  founded  on  Christian  principles. 
It  is  the  only  kind  of  a  league  that  will  give  the  weak 

364 


PLOTTING  PEACE 

a  chance  where  the  strong  are  concerned.  Civilization 
is  on  the  upgrade.  The  reason  we  are  disappointed 
now  and  the  cause  of  the  unrest  is  that  we  thought  we 
had  got  far  enough  along  in  the  process  of  evolution  to 
establish  a  new  order  of  things.  And  we  have  n't. 
Nobody  is  willing  to  give  up  special  privileges,  secret 
treaties,  and  the  balance  of  power.  The  Golden  Rule 
is  too  simple  to  try." 

"Ah,  Madame,"  said  the  Persian  Minister,  "our 
peacemakers  are  like  the  sparrow  in  the  Persian  fable. 
The  sparrow  heard  that  the  sky  was  going  to  fall.  She 
flew  to  her  nest  and  sat  there  stretching  out  her  wings  so 
that  it  would  not  fall  on  her  little  ones." 

In  my  attitude  toward  the  Peace  Conference  I  believe 
I  reflected  all  through  the  attitude  of  the  common  peo- 
ple of  France,  especially  the  Parisians.  We  had  suf- 
fered too  much  and  too  long  to  want  to  see  Germany  let 
off  easily.  Our  internationalism  had  nothing  in  it  of 
pity  for  the  Germans.  We  did  not  worry  about  how 
they  were  going  to  feel  when  they  found  out  what  they 
were  up  against.  We  knew  that  we  could  not  make 
the  Germans  suffer  as  they  had  made  us  suffer.  But 
we  wanted  written  into  the  Treaty  conditions  that 
would  make  our  enemies  realize  their  guilt  by  rinding 
out  that  the  enterprise  had  not  proved  profitafre.  But 
along  with  this  natural  and  justifiable  desire  we  yearned 
for  some  greater  recompense  for  our  own  suffering  and 
sacrifices.  Our  hatred  of  war  had  become  as  intense  as 

365 


PARIS  VISTAS 

our  hatred  of  the  Germans  who  plunged  us  into  war. 
We  hailed  with  joy  the  assurances  of  our  statesmen 
that  they  would  make  this  time  a  durable  peace,  avoid- 
ing the  mistakes  and  errors  of  the  past.  Imagine  our 
consternation  when  we  realized  that  the  delegates  to  the 
Conference  at  Paris  were  not  making  peace  along  new 
lines.  They  were  plotting  peace  along  old  lines. 
Weary  months  passed.  The  censorship  still  muzzled 
the  press.  But  Parisians  knew  instinctively  that  some- 
thing was  wrong.  Before  Easter  we  lost  faith  in  the 
Conference  and  hope  in  its  intention  of  changing  the  old 
order  of  things. 

But  the  great  fact  remained  that  the  war  was  over 
and  that,  despite  the  soaring  cost  of  living  and  labor 
unrest,  we  were  free  from  having  to  go  through  the  hor- 
rors of  the  previous  winter.  We  counted  our  blessings. 

Paris  had  been  the  centre  of  the  world  during  the 
whole  war,  the  prize  for  which  the  Germans  fought,  be- 
cause they  knew  that  success  or  failure  depended  upon 
taking  Paris.  When  they  recrossed  the  Marne  a  sec- 
ond time  and  retreated  from  Chateau-Thierry,  the  war 
was  lost:  and  they  knew  it  then,  and  only  then.  You 
know  that  last  poem  of  Rostand  about  the  Kaiser  climb- 
ing to  the  top  of  a  tower  to  witness  the  final  assault 
against  Paris.  Paris  deserved  the  Peace  Conference. 
So  logical  was  the  choice  that  none  protested.  It  was 
the  only  point  on  which  the  "principal  Allied  and  Asso- 
ciated Powers"  were  agreed.  As  a  resident  of  Paris  I 

366 


PLOTTING  PEACE 

was  proud  that  we  were  going  to  continue  for  another 
winter  to  be  the  centre  of  the  world — without  certain 
decided  disadvantages  the  honor  had  cost  us  in  the  four 
previous  winters !  As  a  writer  and  the  wife  of  a  writer, 
tied  up  by  contracts  to  report  the  Conference,  it  meant 
that  we  could  stay  in  our  own  home  and  in  our  own 
workshops  instead  of  living  in  hotel  rooms  in  some 
other  place  for  long  months. 

We  kept  open  house  for  all — from  premiers  of  bel- 
ligerent states  and  plenipotentiaries  to  delegates  of  sub- 
ject nationalities,  ignored  by  the  Big  Five.  Greeks  re- 
deemed and  unredeemed,  Rumanians  and  Transylvani- 
ans,  Jugo-Slavs  of  all  kinds,  Russians  from  Grand 
Dukes  to  Bolshevists,  Lithuanians,  Esthonians,  Letts, 
Finns,  Poles,  Czecho-Slovaks,  Ukranians,  Georgians, 
Armenians,  Syrians,  Egyptians,  Arabs  of  every  persua- 
sion, Albanians,  Persians,  Siamese,  Chinese,  not  to 
speak  of  the  specialists  and  propagandists  and  newspa- 
permen of  the  Big  Five,  wrote  their  names  in  my  guest- 
book,  ate  at  my  table,  and  discussed  each  other  over 
cigars  and  cordials  before  my  salon  fire.  Few  lacked 
honesty  of  purpose  and  sincerity  and  loyalty  to  ideals. 
But  the  ideals  were  those  of  their  own  national  or  racial 
interests.  Aside  from  a  desire  to  see  justice  done  to 
France  and  Belgium,  there  was  no  unity,  no  interna- 
tionalism in  the  views  of  my  guests.  Most  of  them  I 
respected;  many  of  them  I  admired;  for  some  I  came  to 
have  real  affection.  My  husband  and  I  formed  per- 


PARIS  VISTAS 

sonal  ties  that  I  trust  will  never  be  broken.  But  I  con- 
fess that  the  more  I  listened  to  tabletalk  and  salon  talk 
in  my  own  home,  the  more  bewildered  I  grew.  I  saw 
the  Society  of  Nations  vanishing  in  the  thin  air.  My 
own  narrow  nationalism,  that  had  been  gradually  reviv- 
ing ever  since  the  A.  E.  F.  started  to  come  to  France, 
was  strengthened.  After  all,  was  not  all  human  nature 
like  the  nature  of  my  own  paternal  ancestors,  who  be- 
lieved— as  they  believed  the  Bible,  with  emphasis  on 
the  Old  Testament — that 

Ulster  will  fight 

And  Ulster  will  be  right? 

I  took  refuge  in  the  humorous  side  of  the  Peace  Con- 
ference, as  I  did  not  want  to  get  mad  or  to  become 
gloom-struck  and  weep.  When  Fiume  came  up,  for  in- 
stance, I  would  talk  to  Jugo-Slavs  and  Italians  about 
getting  seasick  on  the  Adriatic  and  the  respective  mer- 
its of  Abbazia  and  the  Lido  and  whether  they  ever  felt 
like  d'Annunzio's  lovers  talked.  The  best  fun  was 
with  my  own  compatriots.  We  Americans  had  nothing 
at  stake  as  a  nation,  and  (if  I  except  a  few  of  Wilson's 
specialists  who  never  were  listened  to  but  always  hoped 
they  would  be)  the  members  of  the  American  Delega- 
tion lost  no  sleep  while  they  were  remaking  the  map  of 
Europe. 

A  Pole  was  explaining  to  us  one  day  that  the  Ukrani- 
ans  were  not  and  never  had  been  a  nation,  and  he  was 

368 


Spire  of  the  Saint-Chapelle  from  the  Place  Saint- Michel 


PLOTTING  PEACE 

in  dead  earnest.  A  captain  in  the  American  Navy  had 
been  listening  politely  for  an  hour.  Then  he  thought  it 
was  time  to  change  the  subject.  He  turned  to  me  and 
broke  in  out  of  a  clear  sky,  "Helen,  you  have  no  idea 
how  fussy  Colonel  House  is.  Found  he  could  n't  get 
waffles  in  Paris.  Telegraphed  an  S.  O.  S.  to  Brest. 
My  machinist  spent  the  better  part  of  two  days  making 
a  waffle-iron,  and  it  was  so  precious  and  the  Colonel  was 
in  such  a  hurry  that  I  sent  the  machinist  to  Paris  to  take 
it  to  him.  Don't  you  think  that  was  the  right  thing 

for  me  to  do,  Doctor sky*?  House  is  pretty  close 

to  our  Commander-in-Chief,  you  know." 

When  touring  Paris  starts  up  again,  the  Cook  mega- 
phone man  will  add  a  new  item  to  his  history  of  the 
Place  de  la  Concorde :  "See  that  building  on  the  corner 
opposite  the  Ministry  of  Marine  I  was  tellin'  yuh 
'bout*?  Number  Four  it  is.  Offices  of  the  American 
Peace  Commission  during  the  famous  Conference,  'n 
b'fore  that  f'r  t'ree  years  American  Red  Cross  Head- 
quarters. 'N  at  tother  end  of  the  row  is  th'  Hotel  Cril- 
lon,  where  th'  Merican  delegates  lived.  There  Presi- 
dent Wilson  tried  to  make  a  'Siety  'v  Nashuns !" 

And  from  now  on  I  shall  never  pass  through  the 
Place  de  la  Concorde  without  thinking  of  our  press- 
room at  Number  Four,  where  we  swapped  rumors  and 
waited  for  an  open  covenant,  openly  arrived  at.  Press 
headquarters  were  housed  in  the  former  concierge's  loge 
— three  wee  rooms  on  the  ground  floor  to  the  right  of  the 

369 


PARIS  VISTAS 

porte-cochere  as  you  enter,  and  one  of  those  was  the 
post-office  of  the  Delegation.  The  quarters  were  pro- 
phetic of  the  importance  and  dignity  of  the  press  as 
looked  upon  by  the  leaders  of  the  Conference.  The 
Americans  arrived  in  Paris  with  different  ideas.  The 
name  chosen  by  the  Delegation  and  printed  on  all  the 
stationery  was  a  sign  of  American  naivety,  and  caused 
much  merriment  among  our  British  and  French  friends. 
AMERICAN  COMMISSION  TO  NEGOTIATE 
PEACE.  Negotiate  peace?  Our  European  allies 
wondered  where  and  how  such  a  notion  entered  the 
heads  of  the  Americans.  We  stuck  to  the  name 
throughout — but  not  to  the  idea. 

The  Hotel  Crillon  and  Four  Place  de  la  Concorde 
were  filled  with  Americans — college  professors,  army 
and  navy  officers,  New  York  financiers,  the  mysterious 
Colonel  and  his  family  and  family's  friends,  the  other 
Delegates,  Embassy  secretaries  and  clerks,  stenogra- 
phers, soldiers  and  sailors,  and  journalists.  The  sen- 
sible ones  were  profiting  by  the  months  in  the  center 
of  the  world  to  see  Paris,  old  and  new;  hear  music; 
and  do  the  theatres.  For  the  time  spent  on  their 
specialties,  trying  to  influence  the  course  of  the  peace 
pourparlers  and  being  sympathetic  to  the  swarm  of  rep- 
resentatives, official  and  otherwise,  of  downtrodden 
races,  did  not  budge  a  frontier  an  inch  or  write  one  line 
into  the  Treaty  of  Versailles. 

When  I  applied  for  a  press-card,  an  American  major, 

370 


PLOTTING  PEACE 

whose  acquaintance  with  a  razor  seemed  no  more  than 
what  anyone  could  gain  from  looking  at  a  display  in 
a  drug-store  window,  looked  me  over  doubtfully.  Was 
I  really  writing  for  the  Century  and  newspapers  to 
boot?  At  length  he  called  a  soldier.  "Take  this  lady 
to  get  her  photograph  made,"  he  said.  Up  four  flights 
of  stairs  we  climbed.  On  every  landing  was  a  soldier 
at  a  desk.  "Through  this  way,  mom,"  said  my  guide. 
He  opened  a  tiny  yellow  door  all  black  around  the  knob, 
and  there  were  more  stairs. 

"Would  n't  it  be  fun  to  play  hide-and-seek  at  Num- 
ber Four  and  in  the  Hotel  Crillon?"  I  asked. 

"That 's  just  what  they  're  doing  here  most  of  the 
time,"  said  Atlanta,  Georgia.  "You  never  saw  any- 
thing like  it.  But  you  must  n't  speak  of  the  Hotel 
Crillon.  This  is  the  Island  of  Justice,  mom.  Yes, 
mom,  it  certainly  expects  to  be  that  if  it  is  n't  yet." 

In  the  garret  room  of  the  Signal  Corps  at  the  top  of 
the  stairs  were  five  sokliers. 

"Hello,  boys,  what  do  you  think  you  are  doing?"  I 
asked. 

"We  're  still  making  this  here  peace,"  answered  a 
stocky  brown-eyed  lad,  occupied  vigorously  with  chew- 
ing-gum. "Since  these  guys  've  come  over  from  home 
to  help  us,  though,  it  is  not  going  as  fast  as  it  was  be- 
fore. Mistake  to  have  thought  they  'd  do  it  quicker 
by  talking  than  fighting." 

"That 's  right,  too,"  put  in  another.  "The  dough- 

371 


PARIS  VISTAS 

boys  c'd  a-finished  it  'thout  all  these  perfessers  and 
willy-boys.  Sit  down  here,  please." 

In  the  gable  window  was  a  chair  with  screens  behind 
it.  On  the  screen  above  the  chair  they  put  up  a  num- 
ber— 1949. 

"My  soul !"  I  exclaimed.  "What 's  the  matter  with 
me?  Is  that  the  date4?" 

"No,  ma'am,  that's  the  date  when  the  Conference 
is  going  to  quit  talking  and  we  can  go  home." 


372 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

LA    VIE    CHERE 

HC.  OF  L.  is  an  abbrevation  I  see  often  in  Amer- 
•  ican  newspapers.  From  the  context  it  was  not 
hard  to  guess  what  it  meant.  In  Paris  we  call  that 
"preoccupation"  (note  the  euphemism  for  "night- 
mare") la  vie  chere.  But  we  never  mention  it  in  any 
other  tone  than  that  of  complete  and  definitive  resigna- 
tion. We  do  not  kick  against  the  pricks.  We  gave 
up  long  ago  berating  the  Government  and  thinking 
that  anything  we  can  do  would  change  matters.  We 
pay  or  go  without.  Our  motto  is  Kismet.  These  are 
good  days  to  be  a  Mohammedan  or  a  Christian 
Scientist.  The  latter  is  preferable,  I  think,  because  it 
is  comfortable  to  get  rid  of  a  thing  by  denying  its 
existence. 

For  the  sake  of  record  I  have  compiled  a  little  table 
that  tells  more  eloquently  than  words  the  price  we  have 
paid — from  the  material  point  of  view — for  the  privi- 
lege of  dictating  peace  to  Germany.  Is  it  not  strange 
that  peace  costs  more  than  war?  The  greater  part  of 
the  increases  I  record  here  have  come  since  the  armistice. 
The  figures  opposite  the  names  of  commodities  repre- 
sent the  percentage  of  increase  since  August  i,  1914: 

373 


PARIS  VISTAS 


Beef    

Mutton   350 

Veal    350 

Poultry   400 

Rabbit 400 

Ham    400 

Bacon    225 

Lard    225 

Pate  de  foie 300 

Potatoes    325 

Carrots    325 

Turnips    450 

Cabbage    850 

Cauliflower 725 

Artichokes     650 

Salads    200 

Radishes    500 

Oranges    200 

Bananas    400 

Figs foo 

Prunes     650 

Celery   1 900 


FOODSTUFFS 
400     Salt   . . 
Pepper 
Sugar 


150 
250 
225 


Olive  oil 350 

Vinegar 225 

Coffee    150 

Macaroni    150 

Vermicelli 250 

Rice 25 

Canned  goods 200-400 

Butter   350 

Eggs    400 

Cheese 400-600 

Milk    150 

Bread    50 

Flour 200 

Pastry 300-400 

Ordinary  wine 300 

Vins  de  luxe 50-100 

Champagne     150 

Ordinary  beer 2OO 

Cider   400 


HEATING  AND  LIGHTING 

Coal    250     Gasoline    125 

Charcoal    250     Wood-alcohol 500 

Kindling-wood 300     Gas    1OO 

Cut-wood    300     Electricity 50 

CLOTHING 

Tailored  suits 150     Collars    150 

Shirts    150-350 

Gloves     150-250 

Millinery    150 


Ready-made  suits 300 

Shoes 200-300 

Hats    250 

Neckties    150 

Cotton  thread 500 

Cotton  cloth 275 


Stockings     150 

Needles 500 

Yarn 500 


374 


LA  VIE  CHERE 

LAUNDRY 

Laundry  work   150-200     Soap    550 

Potash 350     Blueing 200 

FURNITURE 

In  wood   2OO     Mirrors 400 

In  iron   300     Bedding    300 

HOUSEHOLD  LINEN 

Sheets    750     Dish-towels 600 

Linen  sheeting 900     Bath  and  hand  towels . .  400 

Cotton  sheeting 900      Napkins    500 

Pillow-cases    400     Table  cloths 400 

TABLE  AND  KITCHEN 

Cutlery    125      Crystal  ware 225 

Plated-ware    150     Cut  glass    200-350 

Table  china   300      Ordinary  plates 2OO 

Kitchen  china 2OO      Fancy  plates    150 

Coppen  kitchen  ware. ...    125     Brooms  and  brushes. ...  125 

Aluminum  ware loo     Lamps 250 

MEANS  OF  TRANSPORT 

Railway  tickets   50     Taxi-cabs    75 

Excess  baggage   250     Omnibuses    35~5° 

Sleeping  births 400     Tramways    35~5° 

Commutation    75     Postal  cards 100 

STATIONERY  AND  BOOKS 

Writing-paper    900     Newspapers    100 

Wrapping-paper    looo     Magazines    5° 

Paper  for  printing.  . 500-800      Books    1OO 

DRUGS  AND  PERFUMERY 

Fancy  soaps 300-400     Lozenges     250 

Toilet  waters 2OO      Powdered  drugs 150 

Tisanes   150      Prescriptions    100 

Eucalyptus   400     Bottles  for  Prescriptions 

Patent  medicines   ...150-200  '300-525 

375 


PARIS  VISTAS 

TOBACCO 

Smoking  tobacco 50-60     Ordinary  cigars 50 

Ordinary  cigarettes   .  .  .40-75     Cigars  de  luxe 100-150 

Cigarette  de  luxe 10O     Snuff 50 

While  we  decided  upon  what  to  do  with  the  Ger- 
mans, the  rest  of  our  enemies,  and  the  very  trouble- 
some races  we  had  liberated,  the  Chamber  of  Deputies 
passed  a  national  eight-hour  law.  This  did  not  bring 
down  wages  by  the  day.  In  fact,  shorter  hours  of 
labor  led  to  more  insistent  demands  for  higher  wages  to 
meet  the  increase  in  la  vie  chere.  Everyone  borrowed 
from  Peter  to  pay  Paul. 

On  the  day  the  German  plenipotentiaries  arrived  at 
Versailles,  my  children  insisted  on  going  out  to  see 
them.  We  had  to  wait  until  Sunday,  when  my  hus- 
band was  free.  Out  we  went  on  a  bright  May  morn- 
ing. There  were  six  Gibbonses,  four  of  them  very 
small,  and  one  of  my  American  soldier  boys.  Of 
course  we  ate  in  the  famous  restaurant  of  the  Hotel  des 
Reservoirs,  where  the  Germans  were  lodged.  We  did 
not  see  the  Germans.  The  only  sensation  of  the  day 
was  the  bill  for  a  simple  luncheon — two  hundred  and 
eight  francs. 

"It  pays  to  be  the  victors !"  I  exclaimed. 

"Those  who  have  anything  to  sell,"  modified  my 
husband,  grinning  cheerfully  (God  knows  why!)  as  he 
bit  the  end  off  a  ten-franc  cigar. 

376 


LA  VIE  CHERE 

"The  children  will  never  forget  this  historic  day,' 
he  added,  handing  the  waiter  twenty  francs. 
"Nor  I,"  said  the  children's  mother. 


377 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

THE    REVENGE    OF    VERSAILLES 

THE  memory  of  my  introduction  to  Versailles  is  a 
confused  jumble  of  stupid  governess  and  more 
stupid  guide-book.  When  I  was  sixteen  a  governess 
piloted  me  through  endless  rooms  of  the  palace  with  a 
pause  before  each  painting  or  piece  of  furniture.  To 
avoid  trouble  I  was  resigned  and  looked  up  at  the 
painted  ceiling  until  my  neck  was  stiff.  But  I  never 
forgot  the  Salle  des  Glaces.  It  had  no  pictures  or  fur- 
niture in  it.  An  historical  event  connected  with  it 
was  impressive  enough  to  hold  my  attention.  I  re- 
membered a  picture  of  the  crowning  of  Wilhelm  I  in 
a  school-book.  Bismarck  looked  sleek  and  content. 
The  kings  stood  with  raised  arms,  crying  "Hoch  der 
Kaiser."  Underneath  was  the  caption:  THE  BIRTH 
OF  AN  EMPIRE. 

I  did  not  like  that  picture.  I  resented  it  as  I  resented 
the  thought  of  Alsace  and  Lorraine  under  German  rule. 
Ever  since  a  German  barber  in  Berne  mistook  me  for  a 
boy  when  I  was  a  little  girl  and  shaved  my  head  with 
horse-clippers  I  have  had  a  grudge  against  the  Germans. 
And  then,  when  you  have  lived  long  in  France,  that  day 
in  the  Salle  des  Glaces  becomes  unconsciously  a  part  of 

378 


THE  REVENGE  OF  VERSAILLES 

your  life.  I  cannot  explain  why  or  how,  but  the  Salle 
des  Glaces  and  Metz  and  Strasbourg  are  in  your  heart 
like  Calais  was  in  Queen  Mary's.  I  have  lived  under 
two  shadows,  the  shadow  of  Islam  and  the  shadow  of 
Germany.  In  Constantinople  you  do  not  forget  the 
minarets  towering  over  Saint  Sofia.  In  France  you 
do  not  forget  Soixante-Dix. 

Possessor  of  Aladdin's  lamp,  would  I  ever  have 
dared  to  ask  the  genie  to  transport  me  on  his  carpet  to 
the  Salle  des  Glaces  to  see  Germany,  confessing  her 
defeat  before  France,  sign  away  Alsace  and  Lorraine"? 

All  this  was  in  my  thoughts  on  the  morning  of  June 
28,  1919,  when  Herbert  and  I  were  riding  in  the  train 
to  Versailles.  Could  I  be  dreaming  when  I  looked  at 
the  square  red  card  in  my  hand*?  And  yet  at  three 
o'clock  in  the  Salle  des  Glaces  the  German  delegates 
were  to  sign  a  dictated  peace,  which  they  had  not  been 
allowed  to  discuss,  and  which  would  wipe  out  the  dis- 
honor and  the  losses  of  Soixante-Dix. 

We  went  early  and  we  took  our  lunch  with  us:  for 
we  said  to  ourselves  that  all  Paris  would  be  going  to 
Versailles.  For  once  we  felt  that  the  vast  lifeless  city 
of  Versailles  would  be  thronged.  Except  on  a  summer 
Sunday  when  the  fountains  were  playing  I  had  never 
seen  a  crowd  at  Versailles:  and  on  the  days  of  les 
grandes  eaux  the  Sunday  throng  did  not  wander  far 
from  the  streets  that  lead  to  the  Palace.  Always  had 

379 


PARIS  VISTAS 

we  been  able  to  find  a  quiet  cafe  with  empty  tables  on 
the  terrasse  not  many  steps  from  the  Place  des  Armes. 

We  might  have  saved  ourselves  the  bother  of  bring- 
ing lunch.  To  our  surprise  Versailles  was  not  crowded. 
After  we  had  wandered  around  for  an  hour,  we  realized 
that  even  the  signing  of  a  victorious  peace  with  Ger- 
many was  not  going  to  wake  up  the  sleepy  old  town. 
The  automobiles  of  press  correspondents  and  secret 
service  men  were  parked  by  the  dozen  at  the  upper  end 
of  the  Avenue  des  Reservoirs.  Along  the  wooden  pali- 
sade shutting  off  the  porch  of  the  hotel  occupied  by  the 
German  delegation  were  as  many  policemen  as  civilians. 
We  ate  a  quiet  luncheon  in  front  of  a  cafe  down  a  side 
street  from  the  reservoir.  Besides  ourselves  there  were 
only  a  couple  of  teamsters  on  the  terrace.  Inside  four 
chauffeurs  were  playing  bridge.  Had  we  come  too 
early  for  the  crowd?  At  first  we  thought  this  was  the 
reason:  afterwards  it  dawned  upon  us  that  the 
Parisians  were  not  attracted  by  the  affair  at  all.  How 
far  we  had  traveled  in  six  months  from  the  welcome 
given  to  President  Wilson  a  week  before  Christmas ! 

The  ceremony  was  spiritless.  I  pitied  the  men  who 
had  to  cable  several  thousand  words  of  "  atmosphere 
stuff"  about  it  that  night.  If  only  the  Germans  would 
balk  at  signing !  Or  if  the  Chinese  would  enter  at  the 
last  moment  in  order  to  get  into  the  League  of  Nations ! 
The  only  ripple  of  excitement  was  a  signed  statement 
of  protest  handed  out  by  Ray  Stannard  Baker  at  Gen- 


THE  REVENGE  OF  VERSAILLES 

eral  Smuts'  request.  The  South  African,  remembering 
perhaps  when  he  was  a  vanquished  enemy  and  all  the 
painful  years  that  followed  the  Boer  War,  registered 
his  disapproval  of  the  Treaty,  although  he  felt  it  was 
up  to  him  to  sign  it. 

It  was  all  over  in  less  than  an  hour.  Cannon  boomed 
to  announce  the  revenge  of  Versailles;  out  on  the  ter- 
race a  few  airplanes  did  stunts  overhead;  and  for  the 
first  time  since  the  war  interrupted  mid-summer  gaiety 
the  fountains  played. 

Margaret  Greenough  and  I  had  the  good  luck  to 
meet  General  Patrick  at  the  Grand  Bassin.  He  offered 
to  take  us  back  to  town  in  his  car.  Thus  we  became 
part  of  the  procession.  Because  of  the  stars  on  the 
wind-shield  and  the  American  uniform,  our  car  was 
cheered  as  we  passed  in  the  line.  Along  the  route  to 
Saint-Cloud  people  gathered  to  see  the  plenipotentiaries. 
But  we  felt  that  they  were  simply  curious  to  pick  out 
the  notables.  There  was  no  ovation,  no  sense  of 
triumph.  It  was  so  different  from  the  way  I  expected 
it  to  be,  from  the  way  I  expected  to  feel. 

In  my  book  of  mementos  I  have  the  program  of  the 
plenary  session  of  the  Peace  Conference  that  was  to 
crown  six  months  of  arduous  labor,  following  five  years 
of  war,  and  to  mark  a  new  era  in  world  history.  Be- 
side it  is  the  program  of  the  plenary  session  in  the 
Palais  d'Orsay,  when  I  heard  President  Wilson  present 
the  project  of  a  League  of  Nations.  They  are  simple 

381 


PARIS  VISTAS 

engraved  folders  with  a  couple  of  lines  recording  the 
events  under  the  heading  AGENDA.  I  ought  to  regard 
them  as  precious  treasures.  But  they  seem  to  me  only 
the  souvenirs  of  blasted  hopes. 

June  28,  1919,  should  have  been  an  epic,  an  ecstatic 
day.  It  was  a  day  of  disillusion  and  disappointment 
on  which  we  abandoned  the  age-old  and  stubborn  hope 
of  a  peace  that  would  end  war.  Were  we  foolish  to 
have  forgotten  in  the  early  days  of  the  Peace  Conference 
how  slowly  the  mills  of  the  gods  do  grind,  and  that  our 
diplomats  were  children  of  their  ancestors,  still  fettered 
by  the  chains  of  the  past,  still  confronting  the  insoluble 
problems  of  unregenerate  human  nature? 

The  Peace  Conference  was  a  Tower  of  Babel,  where 
different  tongues  championed  divergent  national  in- 
terests. The  only  Esperanto  was  the  old  diplomatic 
language  of  suspicion  and  greed.  The  mental  pabulum 
that  fed  the  public  was  clothed  in  new  terminology. 
When  hammer  struck  anvil  in  the  high  places,  sparks 
shot  out.  We  caught  flashes  of  liberty,  brotherhood, 
the  rights  of  small  nations.  But  in  the  secret  confer- 
ences decisions  were  dominated  by  the  consideration  of 
the  interests  (as  they  were  judged  by  our  leaders)  of 
the  most  powerful. 

One  day  there  appeared  in  our  press  room  in  the 
Place  de  la  Concorde  a  Lithuanian,  who  had  made  an 
incredibly  long  journey,  much  of  it  on  foot,  to  come  to 
the  Peace  Conference.  He  had  been  fired  by  President 

382 


THE  REVENGE  OF  VERSAILLES 

Wilson's  speeches.  He  wanted  to  tell  the  American 
prophet  how  the  Poles,  in  his  part  of  Europe,  were  in- 
terpreting self-determination.  He  did  not  see  the 
President.  Although  touched  by  his  sincerity,  we  won- 
dered at  his  naivety.  Did  he  really  believe  that  the 
same  principle  could  be  applied  everywhere*?  Prac- 
tical common  sense  urged  me  to  believe  that  the  liberty 
propaganda  was  overdone  and  that  it  was  impossible 
to  give  justice  to  everybody.  But  I  was  clinging  to 
my  idealism  as  the  Lithuanian  clung  to  his.  A  plain 
body  like  me  could  not  know  or  understand  what  was 
going  on.  But  why  preach  idealism  in  international 
relations,  if  an  honest  effort  to  apply  justice  impartially 
was  impossible?  Surely  the  Great  Powers  could  act 
as  judges  in  assigning  boundaries  between  the  smaller 
nations.  Liberty,  like  the  love  of  God,  is  "broader 
than  the  measure  of  man's  mind." 

Quoting  from  a  hymn  I  learned  in  childhood  brings 
me  to  what  I  think  was  the  reason  of  the  failure  of  the 
Peace  Conference:  men  forgot.  They  labored  for  the 
meat  which  perisheth.  They  posed  as  creators  of  a 
new  world  order  but  ignored  the  means  of  establishing 
it.  They  forgot  that  Jesus  said,  "He  that  findeth  his 
life  shall  lose  it :  and  he  that  loseth  his  life  for  my  sake 
shall  find  it." 

"But  wait  a  minute,"  I  hear  one  say,  "did  you  ex- 
pect a  peace  conference  to  be  run  on  those  lines'?" 

An  ordinary  peace  conference  such  as  we  had  always 

383 


PARIS  VISTAS 

had,  where  the  victors  divide  the  spoils — certainly  not ! 
But  this  was  not  to  have  been  an  ordinary  peace  con- 
ference. We  had  been  given  to  understand  that  the 
Conference  at  Paris  met  to  incorporate  in  a  document 
the  principles  for  which  millions  had  given  their  lives. 
Germany  stood  for  the  unclean  spirit  that  was  to  be 
exorcised.  Men  had  died  on  the  field  of  battle  for  a 
definite  object.  There  was  the  poem  that  was  like  a 
new  Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic,  "In  Flanders  Fields 
the  Poppies  Grow." 

When  nations  are  not  ready  to  love  their  enemy  or 
even  to  love  each  other,  the  creation  of  a  League  to  do 
away  with  war  is  an  absurdity. 

Either  we  believe  in  the  coming  of  God's  Kingdom 
or  else  we  do  not.  The  remedy  for  sin  and  evil,  the 
means  of  securing  the  triumph  of  right  over  might,  is  in 
keeping  the  commandments.  The  peace-makers  forgot 
the  summary  of  the  law  as  Jesus  gave  it  in  two  com- 
mandments. If  they  had  tested  their  own  schemes  for 
world  peace  by  this  measure,  strange  and  rapid  changes 
would  have  followed.  If  they  had  listened  to  Him  as 
He  spoke  to  them,  it  would  have  been  as  of  old  when 
"no  man  was  able  to  answer  Him  a  word,  neither  durst 
any  man  from  that  day  forth  ask  Him  any  more  ques- 
tions." 

The  ceremony  of  Versailles  did  not  lift  the  shadow 
of  Germany  hanging  over  France.  And  when  I  look 
at  my  son,  I  wonder  what  will  come. 

384 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

THE    QUATORZE    OF    VICTORY 

WE  may  not  have  been  sure  of  the  peace.  We 
were  sure  of  the  victory.  The  soldiers  had 
done  their  part.  Academic  newspaper  discussion  as  to 
when  the  victory  parade  would  be  held  amused  us. 
The  only  uncertainty  was  the  date  of  signing  the 
Treaty.  Once  the  Treaty  was  signed,  it  was  taken  for 
granted  that  the  Quatorze  would  be  the  day.  Protests 
about  shortness  of  time  were  overruled.  It  was  not  a 
matter  for  discussion.  Nobody  paid  any  attention  to 
the  argument  of  those  intrusted  with  the  organization 
of  the  event.  Public  opinion  demanded  that  the  Allied 
Armies  march  under  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  and  down 
the  Champs-Elysees  on  July  Fourteenth.  After  the 
Quatorze  of  testing,  the  Quatorze  of  victory.  There 
was  no  question  about  it.  So  the  powers  that  be  got 
to  work. 

There  was  no  need  to  decide  upon  the  route  of  the 
procession.  Ever  since  August  l,  1914,  Parisians  who 
lived  on  the  Avenue  de  la  Grande  Armee,  the  Avenue 
des  Champs-Elysees,  the  Rue  Royale  and  the  Grands 
Boulevards,  had  been  realizing  how  numerous  were 
their  friends.  From  every  part  of  France  letters  had 

385 


PARIS  VISTAS 

come  from  forgotten  relatives,  passing  acquaintances, 
business  associates,  who  wanted  to  be  remembered  when 

Le  jour  de  la  victoire  est  arrive. 

Public  opinion  dictated,  also,  two  changes  in  the  pro- 
gram as  it  was  announced.  Marshal  Joftre  must  ride 
the  entire  length  of  the  route  from  the  Porte  Maillot 
to  the  Place  de  la  Republique  beside  Marshal  Foch. 
And  the  grandstands  put  up  around  the  Arc  de 
Triomphe  and  along  the  Avenue  Champs-Elysees  for 
those  who  had  "pull"  must  come  down.  This  was  to 
be  the  day  of  the  people,  and  everybody  was  to  have 
an  equal  chance.  When  it  was  seen  that  selling  win- 
dows and  standing  place  on  roofs  at  fabulous  sums 
was  to  give  the  rich  an  unfair  advantage,  the  Chamber 
of  Deputies  was  forced  to  pass  a  bill  declaring  these 
gains  war-profits  and  taxing  them  eighty  per  cent. 
This  resulted  in  the  offering  of  hospitality  to  the 
wounded  that  big  profits  might  have  prevented. 

In  looking  down  my  vistas  of  the  past  year,  I  see 
Paris  reacting  differently  to  almost  every  great  day. 

On  Armistice  Night  we  went  mad.  From  the  ex- 
altes  to  the  saddest  and  most  imperturbable,  Parisians 
spent  their  feelings.  The  joy  was  acute  because  it  was 
the  celebration  of  the  end  of  the  killing.  When  a  sol- 
dier is  frank  and  you  know  him  well  he  will  tell  you, 
"Any  man  who  claims  not  to  be  afraid  at  the  front  is 
lying."  That  fear  was  gone.  Men  could  unlearn 

386 


THE  QUATORZE  OF  VICTORY 

blood-lust :  and  with  honor  now.  Along  with  the  relief 
of  the  end  of  the  fighting  was  the  joy  of  the  end  of 
separations. 

On  June  28,  Paris  thought  her  own  thoughts,  pon- 
dering over  the  peace  that  had  been  won.  Friends 
dined  with  us  that  night.  My  victrola  played  The 
Star  Spangled  Banner — La  Marseillaise — Sambre  et 
Meuse — Marche  Lorraine. 

"Why  don't  you  dance*?"  I  said  to  the  Inspecteur- 
General  d'Instruction  Publique.  "It 's  peace !  I  want 
to  celebrate.  I  need  to  shake  off  the  impression  of 
Versailles  this  afternoon." 

"I  asked  my  concierge  that  same  question,"  said  he, 
"and  she  answered,  'We  don't  rejoice  to-day — we  wait.' 
Les  Parisiens  ne  s'emballent  pas.  Wise  woman,  my 
concierge." 

On  the  night  of  July  13,  Paris  paid  her  tribute  to 
the  dead.  Respect  for  les  morts  is  ingrained  in  French 
character.  At  the  moment  of  victory  those  who  had 
fallen  were  not  forgotten.  They  came  ahead  of  those 
who  lived.  A  gilded  cenotaph,  placed  under  the  Arc 
de  Triomphe,  contained  earth  from  the  many  battle- 
fields on  which  the  French  had  fought.  That  night  we 
passed  with  the  throng  to  pause  for  a  moment  with 
bowed  heads  before  this  tomb  that  represented  the 
sacrifice  of  more  than  a  million  soldiers.  I  thought  of 
Detaille's  picture  in  the  Pantheon,  and  looking  at  the 
crowd  about  me,  mostly  women  and  children  in  mourn- 

387 


PARIS  VISTAS 

ing,  I  asked  myself  if  this  were  La  Gloire.  The  level 
rays  of  the  setting  sun  fell  upon  the  soldiers  on  guard. 
People  spoke  in  whispers.  None  was  tearless.  It  was 
"Debout  les  Marts  "  I  They  passed  first  under  the  Arc 
de  Triomphe.  Had  they  not  blazed  the  way  for  those 
who  would  march  on  the  Quatorze  of  victory? 

Half  way  down  the  Champs-Elysees,  at  the  Rond- 
Point,  were  heaps  of  captured  cannon  that  had  stood 
along  the  Avenue  and  in  the  Place  de  la  Concorde 
through  the  winter  since  the  armistice.  They  had  been 
gathered  here,  and  surmounting  them  was  the  coq 
gaulois.  But  around  the  Rond-Point  huge  urns  com- 
memorated the  most  costly  battles  of  the  war,  and  in 
them  incense  was  burning. 

"Are  you  going  to  see  the  parade1?"  I  asked  a  friend 
who  had  lost  two  brothers. 

"Certainly,"  she  replied.  "Last  week  my  mother 
went  to  the  grave  of  my  little  brother  in  the  Argonne. 
She  put  wreaths  on  it  and  prayed  there.  The  other 
brother  was  blown  up  by  a  shell.  There  is  no  grave 
for  him.  So  to-night  we  shall  think  of  him  when  we 
pray  before  the  cenotaph.  We  shall  spend  the  night 
there  to  have  a  good  place  to-morrow." 

Herbert  and  I  thought  of  her  and  her  mother  and 
of  many  other  friends  who  were  in  the  crowd  around 
the  Arc  de  Triomphe.  We  had  our  own  reasons  for 
bowing  before  the  cenotaph.  Dear  friends  had  been 
lost  during  those  awful  years  and  in  the  last  weeks 

388 


THE  QUATORZE  OF  VICTORY 

one  of  our  own  family  fell  on  the  front  between  the 
Le  Cateau  and  Guise.  It  is  strange  how  you  go  on 
living  in  the  midst  of  war,  seeing  others  suffer,  sharing 
their  grief,  and  never  thinking  that  the  death  that  is 
stalking  about  will  enter  your  own  family  circle  until 
the  telegram  comes.  You  have  helped  others  at  that 
moment :  and  then  it  is  you. 

There  is  a  fine  sense  of  balance  in  French  character. 
One  remembers  the  dead,  but  one  does  not  forget  the 
living.  Most  of  those  who  intended  to  go  with  hearts 
rejoicing  and  smiles  and  laughter  to  greet  the  defile  of 
the  Quatorze  could  not  have  stood  the  ordeal  unless  it 
had  been  preceded  by  the  quiet  night  watch  with  the 
dead. 

The  Quatorze  has  always  meant  to  us  an  early  start 
for  the  Bois  du  Bologne  to  see  the  review.  Throughout 
the  Third  Republic  the  day  had  a  distinctly  military 
atmosphere.  Who  does  not  remember  Longchamp  be- 
fore the  war"?  Each  year  Paris  went  to  the  review  with 
pride  not  unmixed  with  anxiety.  There  was  a  serious 
aspect  impossible  for  the  stranger  to  realize  and  appre- 
ciate. After  all,  the  army  was  not  a  small  body  of 
men  who  had  given  themselves  to  a  military  career. 
It  was  the  youth  of  the  nation  performing  a  duty  im- 
posed upon  it  by  the  geographical  position  of  France. 
The  army  was  the  nation  in  arms,  an  institution  as 
necessary  for  well-being  and  security  as  the  police. 
Longchamp  on  the  Quatorze  was  the  assurance  that  the 

389 


PARIS  VISTAS 

job  of  protecting  France  was  being  well  looked  after. 
And  the  spectators  were  the  fathers  and  mothers,  the 
brothers  and  sisters,  of  the  army.  Every  Parisian  had 
passed  through  the  mill.  How  often  after  the  review, 
when  the  soldiers  came  from  the  field,  have  I  seen 
middle-aged  civilians  joking  with  them  in  the  way  one 
only  does  with  comrades  of  one's  own  fraternity.  It 
was  hard  for  the  Anglo-Saxon  to  understand  this  before 
the  war.  The  Barrack-room  Ballads  would  be  incom- 
prehensible to  a  Frenchman.  "Tommy"  was  every- 
body in  France. 

But  this  review  was  different.  The  intimacy,  the 
sense  of  the  soldiers  belonging  to  the  people  and  being 
of  the  people,  had  always  been  there.  Added  to  it  now 
was  the  knowledge  of  what  the  army  had  done  for 
France.  There  is  no  country  where  la  patrie  recon- 
naisante  means  more  than  in  France.  And  the  great 
danger  was  so  fresh  in  our  minds!  From  the  stand- 
point of  the  soldier  it  was  different,  too.  For  five 
weary  years  the  poilu  constantly  on  duty  and  not  know- 
ing which  day  might  be  the  last  saw  in  the  soft  blue 
rings  of  his  cigarette  smoke  the  defile  under  the  Arc  de 
Triomphe  and  prayed  that  he  and  his  comrades  would 
be  there.  That  was  the  only  uncertainty — whether  he 
himself  would  be  spared  for  the  jour  de  la  victoire.  If 
France's  soldiers  had  doubted  that  the  day  would  ar- 
rive, they  could  not  have  continued  to  sing  the  Mar- 
seillaise— and  the  war  would  have  been  lost  then  and 

390 


THE  QUATORZE  OF  VICTORY 

there.  The  Quatorze  of  peace  days  was  fun  to  the 
spectators  but  a  corvee  for  the  soldiers  who  marched. 
The  Quatorze  of  victory  was  the  realization  of  the 
dream  that  sustained  the  soldiers  throughout  the  war. 
It  was  the  reward  for  having  believed  what  they  mut- 
tered doggedly  through  their  teeth,  "Nous  allons  les 
e eraser  com  me  des  pommes  de  terre  cuites!" 

One  of  our  poilus,  a  boy  to  whom  we  had  been 
through  the  war  as  next  of  kin,  who  wore  the  medaille 
militaire  and  whose  croix  de  guerre  carried  several 
palms,  came  to  us  late  in  the  night  before  the  victory 
parade.  He  said  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 

"The  chains  are  down!" 

"What  chains'?"  I  asked. 

"The  chains  around  the  Arc  de  Triomphe.  They 
have  been  there  since  Soixante-Dix.  Do  you  realize," 
he  cried  seizing  my  hands,  "that  the  last  time  soldiers 
marched  under  the  arch  it  was  Germans?  Ah,  the 
Huns,  I  hate  them !  We  are  supposed  to  keep  our  eyes 
straight  before  us  during  the  march,  but  I  shall  look  up 
under  that  arch.  I  shall  never  forget  the  moment  I 
have  lived  for." 

"And  Albert,  the  ideals  that  made  you  enlist,  have 
they  survived?" 

"They  are  here,"  he  replied,  slapping  his  chest  until 
his  medals  jingled.  I  made  up  a  lunch  for  Albert,  and 
off  he  went  to  get  to  the  rendezvous  at  the  Porte  Maillot 
at  two  A.  M. 

391 


PARIS  VISTAS 

We  had  determined  that  the  whole  family  should 
see  the  defile  de  la  victoire.  The  younger  children 
might  not  remember  it,  but  we  never  wanted  them  to 
reproach  us  afterwards.  How  to  get  there  was  a  prob- 
lem that  needed  working  out.  The  children  had  an 
invitation,  which  did  not  include  grownups,  from  Lieu- 
tenant Mitchell  whose  window  was  in  the  American 
barracks  on  the  north  side  of  the  Avenue  near  the  Rue 
de  Berri.  Dr.  Lines  asked  Herbert's  mother  and  Her- 
bert and  me  to  the  New  York  Life  Insurance  Com- 
pany's office  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Pierre-Charron  on 
the  south  side  of  the  Avenue.  How  take  the  children 
to  the  other  side  and  get  back  to  our  places'?  There 
was  only  one  answer.  Taxi-cabs  that  could  go  around 
through  the  Bois  du  Bologne  and  Neuilly  or  the  Place 
de  la  Republique. 

In  the  court  of  the  building  where  we  have  our  studios 
in  the  Rue  Campagne-Premiere  lives  Monsieur  Robert, 
a  taxi-chauffeur.  Herbert  arranged  with  him  to  be  in 
front  of  our  house  at  six-thirty  A.  M.,  promising  him 
forty  francs,  with  a  premium  of  ten  francs  if  he  got 
there  before  six-fifteen.  Then,  to  guard  against  break- 
downs, he  found  another  chauffeur  to  whom  he  made 
the  same  offer.  On  Sunday  afternoon  Herbert  began 
to  worry.  It  was  bad  to  have  all  your  eggs  in  two 
baskets  when  you  are  looking  forward  to  the  biggest 
day  of  your  life.  So  a  third  chauffeur  was  found  to 
whom  the  same  offer  looked  attractive, 

393 


THE  QUATORZE  OF  VICTORY 

We  got  up  at  five,  had  our  breakfast,  and  prepared 
a  mid-morning  snack.  Lloyd  was  on  the  balcony  be- 
fore six  to  report.  Three  times  he  came  to  us  in 
triumph.  Our  faith  in  human  nature  was  rewarded. 
When  we  got  down  to  the  side-walk  we  found  our 
chauffeurs  examining  their  engines.  My  heart  sank. 
But  they  explained  that  feigning  trouble  with  the  works 
was  the  only  way  of  keeping  from  being  taken  by 
assault. 

We  sent  Grandmother  and  the  baby  directly  to  Rue 
Pierre-Charron.  That  part  was  easy.  Then,  in  the 
other  two  autos,  we  started  our  long  morning  ride  to 
get  to  the  other  side  of  the  Champs-Elysees  and  back. 
Fortunately,  the  chauffeurs  had  seen  in  the  papers  that 
a  route  across  the  Grands  Boulevards  would  be  kept 
open  from  the  Rue  de  Richelieu  to  the  Rue  Drouot. 
After  waiting  a  long  time  in  line,  we  managed  to  get 
across,  and  made  a  wide  detour  by  the  Boulevard 
Haussmann  to  the  Rue  de  Berri.  Shortly  after  seven 
we  delivered  the  kiddies  to  the  care  of  Lieutenant 
Mitchell.  Our  own  places  were  just  across  the  Avenue. 
But  it  took  us  another  hour  and  a  wider  detour  to  get 
to  them.  We  were  glad  of  the  two  taxis.  If  one 
broke  down,  there  was  always  the  other.  We  wanted 
to  play  safe. 

From  our  place  on  the  balcony  of  the  New  York 
Life  we  had  the  sweep  of  the  Avenue  des  Champs- 
Elysees  from  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  to  the  Rond-Point. 

393 


PARIS  VISTAS 

On  many  buildings  scaffolding  had  been  run  up  to  hold 
spectators.  People  were  gathered  on  roofs  and  chim- 
neys. Every  tree  held  a  perilous  load  of  energetic 
boys.  Hawkers  with  bright-colored  pasteboard  peri- 
scopes did  not  have  to  cry  their  wares.  Ladders  and 
chairs  and  boxes  were  bought  up  quickly.  But  the 
Avenue  is  wide.  All  may  not  have  been  able  to  see. 
But  those  behind  were  not  too  crowded  and  at  no  time 
during  the  morning  was  all  the  space  taken  from  the 
side-walk  to  the  houses. 

At  half-past  eight  the  cannon  boomed.  Another  in- 
terval: then  the  low  hum  that  comes  from  a  crowd 
when  something  is  happening.  Then  cheers.  The 
defile  de  la  victoire  had  begun.  The  head  of  the  pro- 
cession was  like  a  hospital  contingent  out  for  an  airing. 
There  were  one-legged  men  on  crutches  and  the  blind 
kept  in  line  by  holding  on  to  empty  sleeves  of  their 
comrades.  The  more  able-bodied  pushed  the  crippled 
in  rolling-chairs.  The  choicest  of  the  flowers,  brought 
for  the  marshals  and  generals,  went  spontaneously  to 
the  wounded.  Once  again  the  French  proved  their 
marvelous  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things. 

Then  came  the  two  leaders  of  France,  Marshal  Foch 
keeping  his  horse  just  a  little  behind  that  of  Marshal 
Joffre.  For  two  hours  we  watched  our  heroes  pass. 
Aeroplanes,  sailing  above,  dropped  flowers  and  flags. 
The  best  marching  was  done  by  the  American  troops. 

394 


THE  QUATORZE  OF  VICTORY 

The  French  readily  acknowledged  that.  But  they 
said: 

"It  is  still  the  flower  of  your  youth  that  you  can  put 
into  the  parade.  Ours  fell  la-bas  long  ago." 

After  the  crowd  began  to  disperse,  we  made  our  way 
across  the  Avenue  to  get  the  children.  As  I  brought 
them  out  through  the  vestibule  a  soldier  caught  sight  of 
us.  He  cried: 

"Gosh,  these  ain't  no  tadpoles !" 

When  the  children  acknowledged  to  being  Americans, 
he  asked  Mimi  whether  she  liked  rats. 

"Yas,  I  do,"  said  Mimi. 

"You  wait  there  a  minute.  I  got  a  rat  I  bought 
from  a  poilu.  It 's  a  tame  one." 

The  soldier  brought  his  rat  and  did  wonderful  stunts 
with  it.  Mimi  squealed  when  the  rat  ran  from  the 
soldier's  arm  to  hers  and  up  on  her  head.  She  did  n't 
know  whether  to  like  it  or  be  afraid.  But  the  rat  evi- 
dently won,  for  when  asked  later  what  she  liked  best 
about  the  parade,  she  put  that  rat  ahead  of  Pershing 
and  Foch. 

We  never  thanked  our  lucky  stars  for  the  view  of 
Paris  from  our  balcony  more  than  on  the  evening  of  the 
Quatorze  of  victory.  To  see  all  the  wonders  of  the 
illuminations  we  did  not  need  to  leave  our  apartment. 
From  every  park  roman  candles  and  rockets  burst  into 
pots  of  flowers,  consellations,  the  flags  of  the  Allies. 

395 


PARIS  VISTAS 

The  dome  of  the  Pantheon  glowed  red.  Sacre  Coeur 
stood  out  green  and  pink  and  white  against  the  northern 
sky.  Revolving  shafts  of  red,  white  and  blue  came 
from  the  Tour  Eiffel.  Church  bells  rang  and  on  every 
street  corner  there  was  music. 

The  dear  old  custom  of  the  night  of  the  Quatorze 
was  revived.  We  looked  down  at  the  lanterns  across 
the  Boulevard  Raspail  at  the  intersection  of  the  Boule- 
vard du  Montparnasse.  Tables  and  chairs  overflowed 
from  the  sidewalk  into  the  street.  But  there  was  a 
large  open  place  around  the  impromptu  bandstand. 
People  were  dancing  and  the  music  never  stopped. 

We  heard  the  call.  And  we  obeyed.  When  we 
reached  the  corner  and  got  into  the  street,  Herbert  held 
out  his  arms. 

"To  everything  there  is  a  season,"  he  said. 

"A  time  to  mourn  and  a  time  to  dance,"  I  murmured. 


THE    END 


396 


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